


Solace

by pink_pencil_girl



Category: Firefly
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst, F/M, Family Secrets, First Love, First Meetings, Forbidden Love, Loss of Parent(s), Minor Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Pre-War, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, Spy Mal, Younger Inara Serra, Younger Malcolm Reynolds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-03-17 20:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13666515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_pencil_girl/pseuds/pink_pencil_girl
Summary: Before the Unification War tore the ‘Verse apart, it first pulled two people together. 19-year-old Malcolm Reynolds, aspiring Independent fighter, and Inara Serra, 20, Companion-in-training. Fate binds them to each other. Duty divides them. And by the time they realize what’s worth fighting for, it might be too late to save it. Pre-series AU, Mal/Inara. [ALERT: No longer updating this story here, only posting to FF Net]





	1. Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome, one and all! Whatever occult forces/strange machinations of the universe may have led you here, I owe you a debt of thanks, for deciding to click on this story. I hope to make it worth your time.
> 
> I promise here and now that I will tell this story to the best of my ability until its bitter end. I will also aspire to maintain a weekly/biweekly update schedule, though I shouldn't promise anything on that score. (The best laid plans...)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Firefly and its characters hail from the mind of Joss Whedon, and belong to the evil Blue Sun Corporation- I mean, *ahem* 20th Century Fox.
> 
> Now that's done and dusted, allow me to pull back the curtains... and let the story begin.

>   
>  This is no immutable world.  
>  We know less than its atoms, rushing through.  
>  Light, light. Light as air, to them,  
>  for all we know. Trust me on this one,  
>  there is happiness at stake.
> 
> \- from "No Less" by Alice B. Fogel  
> 

_02 - 22 - 2506_  


Out on the plains along the edge of Birdseye, the nights could get awfully cold. Mal had expected this. He'd chosen a thick woolen shirt from his drawer by touch, when dressing for his mission in the dark, not an hour before.

But he hadn't factored in the heat of his own adrenaline. Excitement laced with fear, prickling along his neck beneath his two collars. The wool shirt pressed too close, scratching his skin, below the the standard-issue maintenance uniform he'd pulled on over his clothes. Sweat soaked his chest, dripping down his temples.

" _Tā mā de_ ," he muttered, and wiped his brow. He rubbed his palms on the ill-fitting jumpsuit, and jammed the buttons on the metal box in his hands. Its screen had gone dark again.

Mal decided that if he ever ran into the travelling peddler who'd sold him this piece of _gǒushǐ_ electromagnetic transmission reader, he'd shove the thing down the man's throat. True, it was only for home use, to determine if one's personal computer system was emitting the proper signals. It was never meant to be used in a high stakes situation.

Like trying to locate an underground comms box inside an Alliance compound, in the dead of night. For instance.

Mal pressed the power button, and drummed his fingers along the sides of the device. He lifted his eyes to scan the area.

The compound lay empty and dark. The next security detail wouldn't be coming around for another ten minutes. Maybe longer, since the guards were no doubt loath to leave their cozy quarters and trudge around the freezing autumn night.

Mal had to suppress a chuckle, in spite of himself, at the buildings of the compound. He couldn't help it, when he imagined the officers tucked into their bunks inside the squatty, turnip-like spheres of steel. But in truth, it was no laughing matter. The structures established paramilitary presence in troublesome Border planet towns, like Mal's. Designed for quick construction and quick removal, if necessary.

They'd sure got them put up in a hurry. That was almost four years ago, and there they still were.

The reader flickered back to life. Mal shot into the open, holding the box over the bare earth between the buildings and the edge of the compound. The high-pitched hum of the laser fence made his ears itch.

He cupped the display in his palms, watching the numbers rise. When the affirmative symbol blinked at him, he stopped, and clicked the reader off, shoving it into his pocket.

He grinned. _Now for the fun part._

He dropped into a crouch, and pulled the bag off his shoulders. His 'equipment maintenance toolkit,' if anyone asked. Thankfully, they hadn't. He unzipped the bag to reveal a home-grown remote-controlled explosive.

"Hello, beautiful," he murmured.

The beauty of the bomb, in Mal's opinion, lay in its simplicity. The first explosion would open up the ground beneath, exposing the communications box. The second charge would tumble into the hole. About ten seconds later, the screens all across the compound's Cortex mainframe would show nothing but static.

Mal pulled a trowel from the bag. The first charge had to start with about a foot of depth, or else it wouldn't do much but make a loud bang. He made the first slice into the ground, and grimaced. It had been a dry summer, and the fall rains hadn't done much to soften the earth.

Somewhere in the clump of buildings behind him, a motion-activated light clicked on. A wash of white tossed his own shadow over his work. Mal's heart seized. He turned to look over his shoulder, but couldn't see anyone.

Fear flooded his veins like raw electricity. Moving faster than he'd ever thought possible, he dug into the ground just deep enough to bury the lower part of the bomb. The secondary charge stuck out of the hole. Mal shoved the trowel and gloves back into the bag, and threw it over one shoulder. He stood up, leaving the bomb laid bare to the light.

His own movement masked the sound of footsteps behind him. Otherwise he might have heard the clumsy approach of the guards, before too late.

"You there. Don't move."

He froze.

"Turn around." The guard sounded young. "Keep your hands where we can see them."

"I'm gettin' mixed messages here, sir." Mal kept his voice taut, so it wouldn't shake. "Should I stop movin', or turn around?"

He heard a chuckle, hastily silenced, before the same guard snapped, "Turn around, citizen, and state your purpose here."

In the near distance, on the other side of the fence, Mal caught sight of a flickering light. It flashed once, twice, then went dark. He smiled.

"Citizen," the guard barked. "Turn around, or we will be forced to subdue you."

Mal's jaw went tight. "I ain't no citizen of yours." Every thread of his being tensed, ready to break. "And I won't be subdued."

The laser fence sputtered out. It left an infinite, inviting darkness in its place.

Mal sprinted forward, kicking up freshly-dug soil in his wake. He outran the reach of the compound's lights, let the night swallow him whole, dodging the sonic rifle blasts which bent the air around him. He threw himself past the fence. A figure took shape out of the shadows, running alongside him.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Mal." Hadley McDannel's frail voice was even thinner for lack of breath. He barely kept pace, mouth hanging open, as he threw a glance over his shoulder to see if the guards were giving chase.

Mal grabbed Hadley's arm. "Don't look back, just detonate it. Now!"

Hadley looked down at his hands, to input the sequence into the remote, and stumbled, choking on air. Mal held onto him, pulling him upright again. They hurled themselves at the empty plains ahead.

The explosion tore a hole through the night, a brazen knock from the other side of the ground. It echoed in high, ringing tones, in the panicked shouts of the guards, the wail of the compound's alarm system. Another knock followed, even deeper, shattering all other sound. The splinters reached Mal's ears.

He let out a whoop. Hadley laughed, high and giddy. Neither of them stopped running.

The land stretched unbroken, until a row of trees appeared on the horizon, blurring the hem of the sky. Mal slowed, slipping between the slender trunks. With the last of his momentum, he crashed down the bank and into the creek. Hadley followed, after glancing back in the direction of the compound.

" _Wo cào_." Mal panted for breath. "Did we really give 'em the slip?"

"Looks like." Hadley's eyes were wide, shining in the moonlight that dappled the creek. "We did it, Mal."

They stood still a moment, staring at each other, letting the ice-water sting their ankles. Then Mal broke into a grin, and dove down to scoop up a handful of the stream. He tossed it into Hadley's face.

"We did it!" he cackled.

Hadley lunged toward him with a growl, throwing his matchstick arm around Mal's neck. They hadn't been evenly matched, in terms of brawn, since Mal's first growth spurt four years before, but it didn't stop them from tussling when the mood struck.

Mal threw Hadley off easily, rubbing his knuckles into the shorter boy's black corkscrew curls.

"Git offa me." Hadley's voice stretched in a grin. Mal obliged him. Hadley sobered a bit, as he straightened up. "We ain't outta trouble yet. We better walk in the creek awhile, in case they try and track us."

Mal nodded. He knew to listen to Hadley's ideas. They were often sound, and a hell of a lot more sensible than his own. It had been Mal's idea to plant the bomb. But Hadley had built it. He'd hacked into that fence, too, which had saved Mal from being arrested, or worse.

"Hey. Danny boy." He clapped a hand on Hadley's shoulder. "Thanks for savin' my _pì gǔ_ back there."

"You idiot." Hadley shook his head, grinning. "I couldn't let you get yourself caught, and leave me to suffer the wrath of Silas all by my lonesome."

Mal's hand slackened, and fell back to his side. He stopped dead.

Hadley kept talking, crashing through the water. "He's gonna go _cracked_ when he finds out-"

"Hadley." Mal waited until his friend had turned around to finish. "Silas can't ever find out about this."

Hadley's brow creased. "But Mal-"

"If he knows, that means his bosses will, too. And the Independents don't take kindly to meddlers like us."

"He's your guardian," Hadley said, soft, reverent. "He'd never rat you out."

"That ain't the point." Mal started walking again. "They'd get it outta him somehow, and then-"

"The Independents are the reason you planned this in the first place," Hadley tossed out. Mal stopped, and turned to face him. Hadley didn't falter. "You've been tryin' to get in with them for years. And they've always said you're too young. Immature, unstable. You did this for them, Mal. You did this to prove them wrong."

"No. I didn't." Mal's voice dropped to a flicker. "I'm done tryin' to prove myself."

Hadley's mouth twitched. He ducked his eyes, and Mal knew he didn't believe it.

But when he spoke again, it was only to invite Mal to crash on his bedroom floor that night, so as not to wake Silas coming in. Mal accepted, grateful.

As he and Hadley climbed out of the creek with feet half-frozen, nearing the cottages on the outskirts of town, Mal pulled at the chain around his neck, to lift the small silver cross from below his shirt. Gripped in a fist, its shape imprinted into his palm.

He shut his eyes, and lifted up a prayer, to thank God for that night's success.

For the first time since his mother's death, he'd done something right, something real, and no one could take it from him.

  


Mal's eyes had half-fluttered shut, when the good Word thundered in his ears.

"Yes, my friends, _praise_ be to God." Father Dale had the voice of a six-foot-seven cowhand inside the body of a human vole, short and whiskery. "For He is on the side of the righteous."

Mal blinked. He kept his hands folded in front of him, suppressing the urge to rub his eyes. He was grateful to Garland for taking in stride Mal's surprise appearance on her son's bedroom floor that morning, but did she have to wake them up so _gāi sǐ_ early? It was true that folk on Shadow considered sleeping past seven basically akin to the sin of Sloth, unless you were sick or dying, but Mal thought an exception ought to be made sometimes. On the Lord's day and all.

He glanced sideways at Hadley, who had clearly caught him nodding off. His mouth clamped tight, nostrils twitching. Mal tipped him a severe look, one eyebrow raised, and turned to face front again. He cracked a smirk.

Father Dale paced in front of his podium, the way he did when he really found his rhythm. Mal had to admit, he was a hell of a preacher. That morning, sparks were flying out the little man's mouth.

"These are the times that try our souls. We are being tried, we are being tested, for Satan and his agents never rest in their lust for our spirits. They want to crush us under their heels, to destroy everything we've built. To take what we love."

Grunts of agreement rippled through the congregation, heads bobbing. Mal looked around. It seemed the whole population of Birdseye was crammed between those four listing walls. A light shone out of every face, banishing their weariness, the tired lines around their mouths. Their eyes were lost in Father Dale, or closed in contemplation of the man's words.

"Our troubles are many." The preacher rested a hand on his podium, and looked out over the pews. His voice rang like a bell through the dust-ridden air. "Our troubles are many, my friends, but so are we. We are many, and our faith makes us mighty!"

All around him, people nodded. Mal nodded with them. From the back of the church, someone belted, "Amen," and there were a few throaty echoes.

"Now, let us lift our voices in song, to praise His glory."

After the hymn and final remarks, the church emptied itself of people, into the cold, clear morning outside. Mal made his goodbyes to Hadley and his mother, thanking Garland for her hospitality and fine breakfast, before he joined the churning throng near the door.

Mal elbowed his way through, muttering apologies. He kept his head down. Everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew him especially, but he didn't have time for small-talk. He had to get back home, and change out of last night's clothes. Then he needed a story to explain his midnight disappearance to Silas. It had to be good.

He made it through the crowd on the steps of the church, walking through the fog of his own thoughts, when he ran straight into someone tall and narrow. Mal stumbled backwards. He looked up, into a familiar set of flinty eyes.

Silas Hunt loomed over him, even more stone-faced than usual, his long black hair mussed and greasy. A pallor hung over his weather-tanned skin. He looked as though he'd had a rough night.

"Been lookin' for you." He glanced down, at Mal's rumpled, dirty clothes, then back up. There was no surprise, no question in his gaze.

"Yeah, uh, same here," Mal stammered. "You're prob'ly wonderin' where I was last-"

Silas cut him off. "We gotta go."

Mal nodded, but Silas didn't see, already stalking down Main Street. Mal followed. It wasn't long before the silence got to him, kicking his nerves into gear.

"Did something happen in the next town over?" He meant to ask it casually, but instead the question burst like a dam breaking. At least he remembered to use the code name for the Alliance compound, lest he be overheard by one of the 'peacekeepers' stationed on every corner.

Silas didn't even look at him. He kept silent, mouth clamped shut, his jaw jutting out from the sharp lines of his profile.

Mal chewed his lip. Silas had been his legal guardian for three and a half years, and before that, one of the many hands on the ranch, looking out for Mal since he was crawling. Mal knew his temperament, knew when he was angry, down to the precise shade and duration. But this was something else.

He put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Silas, wait-"

"I know, Mal," he snapped, and jerked his shoulder out of reach. "I know," he said again, quieter.

Mal was stuck for a moment, open-mouthed. As soon as his legs started working again, he hurried to catch up.

"How?" he demanded. "How'd you know it was me?"

"It's my job."

Mal heard the full meaning behind the word: his job as Mal's guardian, and his job with the Independents, which didn't have a title. Strictly speaking, it didn't exist.

"So- do they…" Mal's blood thickened, pulsing in his head. " _They_ don't know, do they?"

Silas didn't say anything.

Mal grabbed a fistful of his brown leather jacket, pulling them to a stop. "If they know, I need to hide," he breathed. "They don't let people mess with their operations. I won't be let off easy for something like this-"

"That's enough outta you." His voice came out spiked, and Mal let go of him. Silas turned around. "Listen to me." He spoke low and fast, matter-of-fact, the way he used to coach Mal around the horses. "We're goin' to meet some folks. And you better keep your fool mouth from shootin' off as it's wont to do. Speak when spoken to, and show respect. Understand?"

Mal gulped air, enough to ask, "Who are they?"

Silas held his eyes a moment. "They're your only chance." He turned away.

Mal clenched his jaw, and fell into step, imitating his guardian's long, impatient stride. Questions burned in his throat, but he swallowed them down.

For once in his life, he didn't want to know the answers.

  


There was a reason Birdseye had been one of the first towns on Shadow to be occupied by the Alliance. Mal estimated a healthy two thirds of the population over the age of eighteen were involved with resistance operations, in one way or another. But there were rules. Rules about everything, from code words, to coat colors, to who had contact with those in Command.

Planting that bomb, Mal had broken the most important one. _Never act alone._

Silas wound a cautious route through town, Mal trailing along, until at last they reached the general store. When they walked in, the shopkeeper paused his sweeping, and pointed to a set of shelves in the back. The shelves were on hinges, and Silas pulled them away to reveal an opening in the wall.

They crawled through, descending a cramped flight of stairs. A narrow passage opened out into a musty cavern of a room, far larger than Mal had expected.

Barely two steps in, a figure cut itself out of the shadows beside him. A pair of hands spun Mal around, and shoved him toward the wall by the entrance.

"Hey!" Mal's palms smacked stone. Silas landed on the wall next to him, in the same position, and shot him a look. They were both treated to a full body pat-down, from their armpits to their heels.

"You must be the welcoming committee," Mal deadpanned.

"Shut it," Silas hissed.

Mal's attendant grabbed him by the shoulders again, and pulled him away from the wall. The other greeter, wily and bearded, did the same with Silas. But Silas was released.

Mal wasn't.

He felt the rough kiss of rope on his wrists. Before he even thought to get away, the bearded man had wrapped his arms around Mal's shoulders, holding him still while the other tied him up.

"The hell is this-" Mal protested, voice weak and pinched, useless, because he knew. He knew exactly what it was. Panic weighed heavy in his limbs, filling his lungs. He struggled in vain against the thug's grip, and looked over to Silas.

His face had closed up hard. He looked at Mal the way one looks down into a freshly-dug grave, as one stands by, holding the shovel.

Mal couldn't form words. He hoped his eyes were hot enough to sear into Silas what Mal was feeling then, as the first man finished the knots.

They hauled Mal by the shoulders into a circle of light, cast by a single bulb hanging overhead. He resisted, dragging his feet, letting out a growl as he strained his wrists against the rope. The knots were so tight he couldn't even make fists.

"Malcolm Reynolds," a woman's voice drawled, one Mal recognized before he saw her face. "Glad you could make it."

Mal stumbled forward, as the men let go of him. He looked up into the cold, grey gaze of Jo Mercey.

Her sharp features complemented sharper eyes, glaring at Mal from under precise black eyebrows. Her tawny brown skin caught the light from overhead. She made it hard to look at her directly, a skill acquired long before the Alliance had arrived, back in the days when she'd served as mayor of Birdseye. Now, as a leader of the Independents, it continued to serve her well.

Jo was the only one sitting down, established behind a table, and flanked on either side by two strangers. In the shadows beyond them lurked another familiar face. Anders Prince, wearing a smug, easy smile. He had only a few years on Mal, and a far harder reputation for causing trouble. But he'd been given his brown coat three years before, when he was only 21.

The silence stretched until Mal's ears began to ring. He kept his face still, jaw set. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the stranger on Jo's right, a hard-faced blonde woman. Her hand had moved to the pistol on her hip.

Jo leaned back in her chair, with a sneer. "You made a real _yì tuán zāo_ for us to untangle."

Mal lifted his chin. "If you're gonna kill me, go ahead." He forced the words to come out steady. "No point in tyin' me up and talkin' at me first. Didn't you learn it ain't polite to play with your food?"

Jo's brow arched. "You got a mouth on you, boy," she said dryly, looking down at the tablet in front of her. "But last night's security footage already told us that."

She tapped the screen. A recorded voice scratched out, _"Citizen, turn around, or we will be forced to subdue you."_ Mal's reply was warped by distance, but clear enough to be heard. _"I ain't no citizen of yours. And I won't be subdued."_

Jo touched the screen again to halt the playback. She looked back up at him, with an unfelt smile. "Real pretty little speech," she said.

Mal narrowed his eyes. "How'd you get that? I knocked out all the cameras close enough to read me."

"Our girl Sam here," Jo tossed her head at the blonde, "ripped it off the guards' body-cam feeds. They didn't get your face, but that just means they'll be pullin' in every young dark-haired male they can get their gloves on. Maybe even Hadley McDannel." She leaned on the name, knowing.

Mal swallowed a mouthful of gritty air. He shut his eyes. _Please, not Hadley. Kill me, but let him live. Please._

Jo stood, making her way around to the front of the table. "I hate to be put in this position, Malcolm." She stopped, and levelled her gaze. "But if I let hot-head punks like you pull stunts like this, where would I be?"

"It wasn't a stunt. We-" Mal gulped, to swallow the word back down. " _I_ been plannin' this for months. I thought it all out. I was careful."

A laugh bust out of the other, nameless stranger, a heavy-set man with a gold ring in his nose. He shook his head.

"Careful, no. Lucky, yes." Jo leaned back against the table, arms crossed. "We'd 'a dealt with you in the usual way, but Silas pulled my ear in another direction."

Mal whirled around, to find the man's face in the shadows, his features sketched out in the dim light. Their eyes met. Mal opened his mouth, only to close it again. He looked back at Jo.

"You shoulda heard him, boy." Her lips curled. "Don't think he's ever uttered so many words at once as when he argued for your life." She tilted her head. "But I wasn't convinced 'til I saw the security footage. And I saw a little of what he sees in you."

Jo held out a hand behind her. The stocky man handed over the tablet, which she flicked through as she spoke.

"Our ranks are full of careful men, Malcolm. Careful is good. But you know what they say about a good thing." She glanced up, into Mal's eyes. "Maybe you weren't careful. But you had a plan and you followed through, and you kept your head when things went sideways. We need more of that in the Intelligence Corps."

"Intelligence," Mal echoed. He knew what it meant, _that's what Silas does,_ but in that moment he couldn't grasp what Jo was saying. Her words stuck like flies in his ears, making noise without sense.

Jo set the tablet back down on the table. "How old are you, now?" she asked Mal, looking past his shoulder, to gesture at one of the bodyguards.

Mal managed to choke out, "Nineteen." He jumped in surprise as the same man who'd tied his hands began to undo the knots.

"You ever been off-world?"

"No, ma'am."

She smiled. "Well, you're about to get your chance."

The blood drained from Mal's head, set his heart beating at full gallop. He rubbed his wrists, and stared at Jo, mouth agape. "Are… are you offerin' me a _job?"_

"I wouldn't call it an offer, strictly speakin'. 'Offer' implies a choice."

Mal blinked. "Right."

"You can't stay on Shadow, Malcolm. Not after what you did." She traced her slender jaw with her thumb, and gave a nod. "But there are plenty other places where you could be useful to us."

"And Hadley McDannel?" Mal crossed his arms. "Will he be useful to you, too?"

"We'll leave him be, for now." Jo Mercey took a step forward, narrowing her pale eyes. "Listen to me, boy." Her voice was a dangerous kind of quiet. "This doesn't mean you've been pardoned. Only that you've got the opportunity to commute your sentence, if you can show us you're capable in the field. Got it?"

Mal didn't move. "Yes, ma'am."

"You've got _rèxuè_. Ain't no doubt on that score. But it takes a lot more to make a good operative." Jo held up three fingers, pointing to them as she spoke. "You have to be patient. You have to know when to dig in your heels, and when to run." She gripped all three. "Most important, you have to follow orders."

Mal uncrossed his arms, taking in a breath. He let it out slowly. "I can do whatever you need me to." Heat crackled beneath his words.

Jo held his gaze for another breath, before she offered her hand. They shook.

"Let's get down to business, then." Jo picked up the tablet, tapped the screen, and handed it to Mal. "Your target's name is Solomon Zhi."

Mal scrolled through the public figure profile, stopping on a capture ripped off a press release from some Core news outlet. The man was in his mid-40s, baring perfect white teeth to the camera, waving a soft, moneyed hand.

"He's Parliament. Senior member of the Military Affairs Council, with aspirations to the Chancellor seat. We need someone close enough to tell us where he goes and when. Who visits him, how long they stick around. Get a whiff of what he's up to."

Jo reached over to tap the screen. A different capture popped up. It featured an enormous white and gold mansion, surrounded by lush green lawns.

"Zhi's a bit of a Renaissance man, likes to think he's very cultured. Got a big fancy estate, where he rides his horses. And he needs a new stable hand." Jo took the tablet back. "You're good with horses, aren't you Malcolm?"

"Yes, ma'am." Mal nodded. "I cared for all the horses on my mama's ranch. Silas taught me how."

Jo looked over at the heavy-set man. He pulled an envelope out of his coat, and handed it to Mal. Jo gestured for him to open it.

He shook out a different life, with his face on it. Ident card, work visa, travel permit. Perfect fakes, down to every detail, with his picture on each one, next to the name of a stranger. His new identity: _Wesley Gale._ Mal stared.

"How'd you-" The question died in his throat. All at once, he understood.

They'd been planning to offer him the mission. To give him his chance. And in one night he'd gone and thrown it all arse-up, without any idea what he was doing. How easily he would have been written off. A couple shots in the neck, out in someone's wheat field. _'Dealt with.'_

Mal felt Silas at his shoulder. He looked up, and found the man's eyes, glistening in the stark light from overhead. Jo fell into conversation with her subordinates. Mal let Silas pull him aside.

"Did you know they were going to…?" Mal couldn't finish.

Silas shook his head. "Jo didn't tell me until I came to her this mornin'."

Mal had to swallow twice, blinking fast, before he could look Silas in the eyes. "I'm such an idiot." His voice rose. "I'd be dead, if you hadn't-"

"Hush, now. Ain't no time to worry on what's past." Silas gripped Mal's shoulders, mouth tight, grave. "You're 'bout to be dropped headfirst into a world you ain't ready for. There'll be a lot that won't make sense to you. That includes your orders. You gotta kill your instinct to smart-talk your betters. You do what you're told, _dǒng ma?"_

Mal's brow knit tight. "Silas…"

He nodded, in silent receipt of the words Mal couldn't say. He tightened his hold. "You gotta keep your head, son," he murmured. "No matter what happens."

"I will." Mal held his gaze as long as he could, before Silas let go of him, and stepped back. Mal turned to face Jo and the others, squaring his shoulders. "What else you got for me?"

"Nothin' much, for now," said Jo. "You've got twelve hours to collect your things, say your goodbyes. No specifics, mind. Then you leave for Redcreek, where you'll catch your transport ship. Prince will be goin' with you. He'll give you everythin' else you need to know on the way there."

Anders slipped into the light, and flashed a grin, teeth gleaming against the warm brown tint of his skin. "We're goin' to Sihnon, Mal. The most glittery gumball of a planet in all the Core. Ain't that shiny?"

 _Sihnon._ "Shiny," he agreed.

Jo tossed a look at Anders, before her eyes came to rest on Mal. "Don't forget what I told you, Malcolm." Her gaze demanded his, pulling something out of him. "Patience, prudence, loyalty. We live, fight, and die by those words. You better be ready for that."

Mal gave himself over to the rhythm of his pulse, so warm and loud it seemed to be outside of him, in the air against his skin. For the first time, he could see clearly God's great plan for him, coming true at last.

_He let them take everything, so you could learn to fight back._

"I'm ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _Tā mā de_ \- dammit, f*ck  
>  _gǒushǐ_ \- dog feces  
>  _Wo cào_ \- f*ck (positive connotation, as in 'f*ck yeah!')  
>  _gāi sǐ_ \- damn, damned  
>  _yì tuán zāo_ \- mess (a difficult situation)  
>  _rèxuè_ \- hot blood, righteous ardor
> 
> (A/N): And so it begins. If I've managed to pique your interest, I'd love to hear from you in a comment! If I haven't, I would be even more grateful to hear why not.
> 
> So *cough* I compiled a soundtrack to accompany this story. Feel free to ignore completely. (From here on out I'm going to include the tracks at the beginning of each chapter.)  
>  **Opening Credits:** "The Book of Kells" by Bruno Coulais, from _The Secret of Kells: Original Soundtrack (2009)_  
>  **I Ain't No Citizen:** "End Credits" by David Newman, from _Serenity: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack (2005)_
> 
> Briefly, I wanted to explain the 'AU': as you have no doubt surmised, this story will remain squarely in the universe Joss created. The AU aspect comes from the circumstances that bring Mal and Inara together much earlier than they meet according to the canon timeline. But, if it please you, this story could be 'canon-compliant.' (That will make a lot more sense by the end, promise.)


	2. Sihnon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! I present to you the second chapter, which takes us a 'Verse apart from the last one, and into Inara's world...
> 
> Soundtrack \- **House Madrassa:** "Inside The Tam House" by Greg Edmondson, from _Firefly: Original Soundtrack_

  
_02 - 29 - 2506_  


Silence padded the room, woven into the brocaded fabric which covered the walls. Within the quiet, Inara picked out threads of noise. Some were distant, like the wind brushing over the mountainside beyond the window. Others close, like the sound of peaceful breathing from the cushion beside her.

The breathing began to deepen, into a snore.

Inara broke full-lotus pose to poke her neighbor in the thigh. "Riz," she hissed.

Riz sprang up straight, choking on air. A blush sprang to her milky cheeks. Inara raised her eyebrows at her, then risked a glance at the House Priestess.

The woman wove between the cushions spread over the room, one for each meditating trainee. Min Song had a dancer's tread; her slippers seemed to barely touch the ground. The woman's fawn-colored skin shone in the sunlight, its glow reflected in her dark, angular eyes.

She turned to walk toward Inara, twisting the flat wooden stick in her hands. Inara shut her eyes, a moment too late. Her heartbeat picked up pace.

A breathy sound sliced the air above Inara's head. She flinched, as the wood slat struck her upper arm. Her hands twitched with the urge to rub away the sting, but she kept still. Min's robes shaped a lock of wind out of the air, as she swept past.

Silence settled once again. The pain reduced to static, and Inara's focus returned to her breath. Priestess Song had perfected the art of using the _kyosaku_ to encourage discipline, and never left a lasting mark. The minutes passed, as always, in a timeless flow, until the gong called the session to an end. Inara opened her eyes.

Min stood at the head of the room, and led the bow which finished each group meditation. Eighteen heads bent toward their Priestess. Then they rose, and filed out of the room.

In the corridor, they fell into step alongside the younger half of the Training House, who poured out of the adjacent meditation room at the same time. The air warmed, buzzing with the chatter of almost two dozen twelve to sixteen-year-old trainees. Those of Inara's set, aged seventeen to twenty, were far more reserved.

Most of them, anyway.

Riz linked arms with Inara, and leaned close. "I swear on Buddha's bald head that one day I'm going to stand up, rip that stick out of Priestess Song's hands, and break it in half over my knee. Right in the middle of meditation. I swear I will."

Inara shot her a sidelong glance. "Riz…"

"And the only reason you talked was to keep _me_ from getting smacked, for snoring again," she went on, as the two neared the courtyard, where the first meal of the day was taken in the warmer months. "It's not fair."

"I'm alright." Inara smiled. "Truly. You've suffered the swift rebuke of the _kyosaku_ far more often than I."

Riz shook her copper head. "Still."

They found cushions next to each other, around one of the boards laid out on the white stone paving of the courtyard, spread with the steamed buns, eggs and porridge of their morning meal.

"So, study session in my room today? I'll trade you archery tips for your notes on _The Art of Healing Touch."_ Riz winked, shoving half a steamed bun into her mouth.

Inara shook her head, pouring a cup of green tea. "I can't. I have the tea ceremony exam."

Riz almost choked. She swallowed, with some difficulty, and turned to Inara, eyes wide.

"I'm not worried," Inara went on. "I've practiced so many times, I could pour tea for the Prime Minister, in my sleep."

 _"Aiya,_ you're brave." Riz picked up another bun. "When I have to take the exam next year, I won't make it five minutes before disaster. I'll probably trip over my own dress, and spill boiling water on the evaluator's lap, leaving them no choice but to declare me a dishonor on the House, and send me out into the wilds, with nothing but a scrap of fabric for a beggar's cloak."

Inara had to laugh. _"Kàn zài lǎotiānyé de miàn shàng._ You're not helping."

Lucinda, one of Riz's peers in the year below Inara, leaned across the meal board. "They really do expel you, if you fail any exam in your final year. It happened to Edwige Brixley, remember?"

Of course they did. Expulsion from House Madrassa was rare enough that it was rarely forgotten. Inara took a gulp of tea, and swallowed hard. The possibility of being thrown out, and denied her chance at a Companion license, made her dizzy. The House was the only home she'd ever known.

A ginger-freckled hand covered hers. Inara looked up, into Riz's eyes. They were more green than usual in the daylight, striking and keen.

"There's no way that could ever happen to you, Inara."

"Of course not." Lucinda shook her head, with a quiver of blonde curls. "You're utterly luminescent. The instructors always point you out as an example, for the rest of us."

Inara summoned a smile, looking down at her uneaten breakfast. "You're both very sweet."

"Just think. Seven more months." Riz's smile crinkled at the edges. "Seven months before you turn 21, and become a Companion."

"Oh, Inara, it's so exciting," Lucinda's friend Bo joined in. "You'll surely be offered a position in one of the luxury resorts, and you'll have so many proposals, you'll have to hire someone to help you sort through them."

"Maybe you'll work somewhere close to Nandi," Riz put in. "The two of you can visit Madrassa all the time, and tell us your client stories."

Inara's smile faltered.

Nandi had graduated the year before, and worked in the Luguan establishment, on the other side of the planet. She had promised Inara she would come back often. But Companion life was busier than anticipated, or so Inara sensed, from the handful of brief waves they'd exchanged at first. Shortly after, Nandi had stopped responding. Weeks had turned into months, without a word from her.

Inara took a breath, and recomposed her smile. "Of course I'll visit, _mèi mèi,"_ she said to Riz. "But I have to pass my exams, first."

She forced herself to eat at least a few spoonfuls of porridge, as the voices around her bubbled on. It was normal, surely: the uncertainty, the tightness in her chest. Inara had no reason to be unhappy.

Surely, that was enough.

 

Steam suffused the room. The air pressed close, warming Inara's cheeks. She looked down at the table spread with her materials. She lifted her chin, and checked her posture in the silhouette cast onto the canvas screen in front of her.

At the sound of footsteps in the room beyond, Inara picked up the first tray. It shook in her hands, its contents knocking together.

The trill of a bell called her forward. She stepped out from behind the screen.

Deep scarlet fabric covered the walls, casting a sunrise glow over the low cushioned seat and wooden table. Inara tried not to look for any mistakes. She had arranged the room beforehand, and couldn't move anything now. She set the tray onto the table, and rose, wiping her palms on the slick satin fabric of her dress.

Two women sat in the corner of the room. Inara felt their eyes on her, but she was forbidden from acknowledging their presence. Out of the corner of her eye, Inara recognized the form, and intricate hairstyle, of Priestess Song.

Inara forced a steady breath, and faced the door.

Her 'client' entered the room. A young woman, no doubt a Companion herself, enlisted by the House for the purpose of proctoring exams. Inara almost smiled in welcome, and to help soothe her own nerves, but stopped just in time. Solemnity, she reminded herself, and schooled her expression.

Inara and her client bowed to one another, deeply and silently. Inara moved her arm, as if painting a broad stroke, to indicate the chair, where the woman took her seat. Inara knelt on the mat, opposite the table from her client, and set to work.

From the clay pot, Inara poured warm water over a cloth, folded inside a dish. She presented the cloth to her client, who used it to wipe her face. It left a sheen of moisture on her skin.

The client held out her hands, and Inara took the cloth, to moisten and cleanse the woman's palms and fingers. It was her favorite part of the ceremony, and Inara took her time. She paused, holding the woman's fingers in hers, and smiled up at her.

"You have the loveliest hands."

Her client said nothing, but smiled in return, ducking her eyes.

Inara replaced the cloth in the bowl and stood up, taking the tray with her behind the screen. A larger, more ceremonial clay pot had to be filled with water, and heated over coals in the grate set into the wall, while the second tray was prepared.

Inara bit her lip, and re-adjusted the sash around her waist. She was unused to the elaborate dress, which Companions-in-training didn't start wearing until their examination period. At last, the water was ready. Inara settled the pot into place, and picked up the tray.

The weight of the water and ceremonial stoneware tugged at her arms. Inara kept her back straight, but not tensed. In no way could she show any sign of exertion or effort. She set the tray down, with a slight rattle.

Inara liked to think of the tea-making, or _chanoyu,_ as a dance. It could be adequately carried out as a series of steps, but what made it beautiful was the rhythm. An internal flow, held within her own muscles, that turned mere movement into melody. Her hands moved between the dish of matcha powder, to the brewing vessel, then to the heavy pot of water. She lifted it as if it weighed nothing, a trick requiring balance and care. The water trickled through the air, like music, to fill the pot.

She swirled the pot, and used a small whisk to mix the tea. Once it had turned a vibrant, opaque spring green, she poured the tea into the serving bowl.

Inara held up the bowl to her client, without meeting the woman's eyes, a show of deference. The client drank a mouthful, without betraying any appreciation, and returned the bowl to Inara. She wiped its edge clean with the designated cloth, and drank from it herself.

Another bow concluded the ceremony. Behind her, one of the exam proctors rang the bell again, signaling the end of the exam. Every ounce of tension drained from Inara's limbs, leaving her limp and exhausted.

She stood up, to face her evaluators. The _chanoyu_ instructor, Madam Tao, beamed at Inara, clutching her evaluation board to her chest. Priestess Song didn't look up from her own, still writing. When she did lift her gaze to Inara's, she remained cool and unreadable.

Madam Tao's smile opened. "Well done, Inara," she burst. "Beautiful. Your technique was crisp at the edges, yet fluid. It was a joy to watch."

"Thank you, Madam," said Inara, and looked to Priestess Song.

She arched a slender brow. "I must agree with Madam Tao. Your _chanoyu_ was the best I've seen in quite a while. Clearly, your disciplined practice has served you well."

Inara held back a smile. She started to thank her, then shut her mouth, as the Priestess went on, "Unfortunately, I did not see that discipline reflected in what is perhaps the most crucial piece of this ritual: your interactions with your client."

Inara blinked. Her hands tightened at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She held her breath.

"You broke the silence required for this ceremony, in order to compliment your client's hands. I must say, I did not expect such an immature mistake from you." Her eyes were sharp, locked on Inara's. "Do you know why silence is a part of our ritual?"

Inara nodded. "It is to honor the initial distance between Client and Companion. The distance is not closed until we drink from the same bowl."

"Exactly," said Priestess Song. "Furthermore, it helps to establish an atmosphere of formality and respect. When you cleanse your client's hands, you must not treat her as you would a close friend. She is a guest of honor in a hallowed space."

Inara's throat filled with stones. "Yes, Priestess."

Priestess Song took the evaluation board from Madam Tao, holding it next to her own. Mouth pinched, she hesitated, and made several more marks.

A long silence sank into the air. It seemed to warp the floor beneath them, making it difficult for Inara to stay upright. She braced herself for the worst.

"Inara Serra, prospective Companion of the House Madrassa, your performance in this examination has earned a grade of 'fair.'" The Priestess looked up to Inara. "Your next examination will take place in one month's time."

Inara exhaled. She could have melted with relief. She had to shut her eyes a moment, with the reverence of prayer, before she opened them again.

There was something else, small yet persistent, itching in her throat. She swallowed it away. She bowed to Madam Tao, her 'client,' then Priestess Song. _It's over,_ she thought. _I passed._

But passing could not be enough, not for the daughter of Kalindi Serra. Inara knew that her performance in the seven exams to come must be perfect.

 

"Hello, darling. So sorry I'm late."

Inara felt a kiss on the top of her head. She looked up from the light-paper news bulletin she'd been reading, to watch her father move around the couch, where she'd curled up to await his arrival.

His smile pressed wrinkles around his eyes. "Ah, Inara. You are a tender ray of light in this bottomless pit of a week."

"Hello, _Bàba."_ Inara stood, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, the same way she did every Sunday afternoon, on every weekly visit for the past five years. Before that, Inara had visited her father for an hour every day, but training and study at the House Madrassa demanded to come first. Her father understood, of course.

She glanced down at his grey suit, creased around the elbows and knees, and deduced that he'd spent the morning in meetings in Sihnon's capital. She lifted an eyebrow at him.

"Are you working seven days a week again?"

His eyes dimmed, though he didn't stop smiling. "Don't you worry about me."

"Of course I worry." Inara pursed her lips. "I know you're running for Chancellor this Session, but you must let yourself rest at least one day a week."

"Yes, yes. Wise words." Her father removed his jacket, taking it over to the rack by the door. "I'll ring for tea, then I want to hear all about your first exam."

Inara chewed her lower lip, watching him move to the service panel on the wall, where he pushed the button for the maid. The light-paper began to crumple in Inara's grip. She tapped the corner, to halt the scrolling text, and set it aside.

"Now, then." Her father settled into his reclining chair, across from her, and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Well, I passed," Inara said lightly.

Her father chuckled. "Of course you passed, I'm sure you did better than that. Don't be modest, now. What was your grade?"

Inara swallowed. "It was 'fair.'"

His chin jerked back in surprise. "Only 'fair? What happened?"

Inara ducked her eyes, playing with the hem of her tunic. It had been such a relief to take off the ceremonial dress, and change back into the plain linen shirt and pants worn by all Companions-in-training. But it took only an instant for the humiliation of the exam to flood back to her, warming her cheeks.

She told him what had happened.

"Oh, it was so stupid of me." She shook her head. "Even the Priestess called it an immature mistake. I only wanted to break the tension of the room, make my client feel more at ease. It felt like the right thing to do."

Her father moved to sit on the couch beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders. The maid, Yawen, came in with the tea. He gestured for her to set it on the table, and go back the way she'd come. Inara managed to give the woman a smile in greeting, which Yawen returned, before she slipped out of the room.

"My dear, you possess a marvelous instinct for making people feel at ease. You always have." Inara's father smiled down at her. "I remember one occasion, just before my first Elections cycle. Let's see… you must have been eight." He chuckled under his breath. "I was a nervous wreck, of course. And you put your little hand around mine, and you told me I was already everything I needed to be. Because I was smart, and loving, and I was your father."

Inara had to laugh a little, imagining her younger self, who no doubt had a very dim understanding of all that was at stake in Alliance Parliament Elections.

"You are not stupid, nor are you immature." Her father picked up a cup of tea, handing it to Inara, and took one for himself. "That said, I have to agree with Priestess Song about the importance of respecting the ritual." He smirked. "And you know how rare it is that I should agree with that woman on anything."

Inara looked down, into her cup. "Yes, but…"

Her father raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not sure if _I_ agree." She let out a heavy breath. "Not entirely."

He tilted his head, waiting.

"I know that the tea ceremony comes from thousands of years of tradition, from the art of the Geisha on Earth-that-Was. I agree it's important to make the client feel honored." Inara barely realized what she wanted to say, before it was spilling out of her mouth. "But it's intimidating," she blurted. "The silence, the straight faces. It feels so unnatural, and stiff." She looked to her father. "It would be much better if Companions could tailor the ceremony to each client. Make comments and compliments as we see fit. It would be more intimate, and spontaneous, and real."

"Intimacy and spontaneity have their place in each session," said her father, thoughtful. "Just as formality and silence do, as well."

"But what if formality and silence make the client uncomfortable?"

Her father took a sip of tea. "I'm not trained in this art, nor am I an expert on Companions. Only a man who has contracted with them for many years." He smiled. "I think it's safe to say that none of your clients will be made uncomfortable by the tea ceremony, Inara. They'll be expecting it."

"How can you know that?"

"Because, darling, they will all be trained just as you have been. They've grown up in the same world. They appreciate formality, and silence, and having the discipline to take things slowly, because these are what separate us from the vast majority of uncultured people. Our rituals and traditions make us who we are."

Inara frowned, swirling her tea.

Her father rubbed her back, just below her shoulders, the way he'd soothed her since she was small. "Your talents, coupled with my connections, guarantee a position in any one of the Alliance-protected Companion establishments. You will never come across a client who hasn't seen a tea ceremony before, I can promise you that."

"Alright, but let's suppose I decide to contract independently instead. I might find myself in a more… disconnected area of the Universe, and-"

She stopped. Her father had gone rigid. His hand fell from her shoulder, the other tightening around his teacup.

"What did you say?"

Inara hesitated, watching the line of his mouth. His jaw was clenched.

"I said, if I decide to contract independently-"

"You can't possibly be considering that." His voice could have pierced steel.

 _"Bàba,"_ Inara breathed out, faintly. "It's a hypothetical situation. I was making a point."

He turned his eyes on hers. They glowed, a brighter, more golden brown than her own. "You must promise me you aren't thinking about contracting independently."

She furrowed her brow. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Because, it-" Her father stood up. "It simply isn't _done._ Not by Companions with your potential. You wouldn't take a talent like yours, and- just throw it into the void." He gestured with his cup. Tea sloshed out, splattering the white carpet.

Inara tensed. "My mother contracted independently." The words were razor-lined. "And she was one of the most talented Companions to ever graduate House Madrassa."

Her father glared at the spilled tea, nostrils flared. Inara could hear his breath. "Yes," he said at last. "Kalindi decided to contract on her own after we- after our arrangement dissolved." His voice grew tenuous. "That decision was her last."

Inara's eyes filled with heat. "It was a rare disease. For all we know she caught it here on Sihnon-"

"No, Inara," he snapped. "She didn't. Your mother chose to leave the Core and fly off God-knows-where, and that's the reason she..." He choked on the words.

 _The reason she's dead._ Inara kept silent. Her fists bunched in her lap, fingernails biting little crescents into her palms. She shouldn't have brought her mother into it. Not when she knew so well the wound that was Kalindi's name, re-opened every time it was spoken aloud.

Her father swallowed, and pulled his shoulders back. "The Universe is a dangerous place. Far more now than it was then." He ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair. "I wish disease were the worst of it."

Inara looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

The silence thickened a moment. At last, he met Inara's eyes. "Do you know why I'm running for Chancellor?" he asked, quiet.

Inara shook her head.

"Heading the Military Affairs Council is an immense responsibility." He paced a few steps away to set down his cup, with a rattle. "At the end of the day, it would be up to me to stop those who would let chaos rule the Universe." Heat licked the edges of his voice. "You have no idea what kind of people are out there, Inara, the people I have to think about every day. They would love nothing better than to destroy you, simply because of your birthright."

His shoulders slumped, as the anger went out of him. He finished, soft, "Because of the symbol you wear on your ear."

Inara's hand went to her left earlobe. She touched the golden earring her father had given her for her twelfth birthday, the day her Companion training had begun. It was simple yet elegant, a small disc adorned with six tiny stars, arranged in the same pattern as on the Union of Allied Planets' flag.

She dropped her hand to her lap. "Who are these people?"

Inara's father sat down again, and lifted a hand to rub his temple. "They call themselves Independents. You've heard the name, I'm sure."

Inara nodded. "We discuss current events in our lectures. They're a group of political dissidents, aren't they?"

Her father chuckled, wry and weary. "That's one way of putting it."

Inara leaned closer, quieting her breath, to listen. Her father rarely talked about his work. He preferred to focus on her, when she visited.

He stared into the middle distance. "First, they refused to pay taxes. Now, they've grown openly hostile towards peacekeeping forces." The words seemed to wear down his voice. "There were over thirty bomb attacks on Alliance compounds in this past week alone."

Inara lifted a hand to his shoulder. "Oh, _Bàba…"_

He turned to her, lines etched around his eyes. "I just want to keep you safe," he murmured. "If you're employed by an Alliance establishment, here on Sihnon, you'll be protected."

"Of course." Inara swallowed. "You're right. I don't know anything of the Universe, outside the Core." _And it seems I never will._

Her father smiled. "My _bǎo wù."_ He traced her cheek with his hand."You are so precious to me. You know that, don't you?"

Inara returned his smile, as best she could. "I know." She set her tea aside, and took his hand in both of hers. "And you are my loving, smart father. Who works too much, and needs to relax."

"I can't argue with you there."

Inara patted his hand. "Why don't we take a walk around the grounds, before I have to go back to the House? It's so beautiful and green outside, this time of year."

The door to the parlor swung open. Her father's assistant appeared, a small, grey-haired man with a nervous mouth.

"Councilor, there is a wave for you. From Mr. Claybrook."

"I'll take it in here." Her father stood. "Thank you, Meng."

The man bowed, and ducked out of sight.

"I'm sorry, darling." Her father grimaced. "New campaign advisor. There's so much to be done…"

"It's fine." Inara waved a hand, as she stood up. "I'll walk by myself today, and next week we'll go together."

"I'll be looking forward to it." He gave her a kiss on the forehead. She could sense him drifting, already half-absorbed in thoughts above her head, back to his work.

Just before the door closed behind her, Inara heard her father log into his home computer by voice recognition.

The computer prompted him, "Name?"

"Solomon Zhi," he answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Aiya_ \- interjection to express shock, regret, or distress  
>  _Kàn zài lǎotiānyé de miàn shàng_ \- For heaven’s sake  
>  _mèi mèi_ \- little sister  
>  _Bàba_ \- Papa, Daddy  
>  _bǎo wù_ \- treasure, treasured one
> 
> A/N: There are surprisingly few specifics about Companion training on the wikia, so I did what research I could, and pulled bits from geisha and Zen Buddhist traditions, but I'd love to hear how you think I did overall with capturing House Madrassa. Of course, I welcome any and all comments/impressions you may have!
> 
> The chapters will be shorter from here on out (promise!) and looks like I'll be posting on Wednesdays. Kind of a random update day, but "day" is a vestigial mode of time measurement based on solar cycles, so... Anyway. ;) We shall meet again in Chapter 3!


	3. Intrusion

Bucket in hand, Mal trudged up the sloping green hillside toward the Councilor's mansion, grumbling under his breath.

His second day on the job, and already he wanted to throttle the head groundskeeper. The man was his supervisor, so it would be ill-advised, but Mal could fantasize.

He had a few choice words for the stable hand before him, too. What kind of _rén zhā_ would leave a large, shallow hole, almost a meter wide, right out in the pasture?

Mal had found it that morning, after rising at dawn to walk the fields and get the lay of the land. It was good to get out in the grass and dirt, early enough that sleep still sat heavy on his shoulders. A familiar task, on this planet where _everything_ was different.

Different didn't even cover it. Landing in Lu'Weng, the capital city, Mal felt as if he'd stepped into a fever dream. From the red-tinged sky all the way down, colors shone brighter, more vivid. Artificial lights blinded him at every turn. People dressed strangely; crowds of Buddhists in bright saffron robes, businessmen in asymmetrical suits. Mal saw what he could've sworn was a dress made of lettuce, for sale. The model had blinked at him, straight-faced, from inside her glass cage.

Anders had laughed at Mal's slack-jawed awe. It was his first time off Shadow himself, but he never missed an opportunity to laugh at Mal. Good thing he'd only have to put up with the _hùndàn_ at his debriefings, which would be infrequent, for caution's sake.

Sihnon's countryside was even stranger than its metropolis. Jagged mountains sliced through the land, with buildings perched at dizzying altitudes. Man-made plains served to cradle sprawling estates, patches of green carved into the rock. Though 'patch' was perhaps too slight a word to be applied to Zhi's property, which neared the size of Mal's hometown. The day before, when the groundskeeper had given Mal a tour, they'd had to ride in a flying mule in order to cover it all.

The groundskeeper, Talmai Davis, stood with a forward lilt, like a poorly-erected fence post, tall and round-shouldered. He'd only been there a month or two himself, but his dead eyes gave the impression he'd seen everything. He betrayed no emotion, not even when Mal had called the man down to inform him of the hole in the field.

With as much urgency as he could convey, short of yelling, Mal had explained it needed to be filled. As soon as possible. _As in, yesterday._ Davis proceeded to tell Mal off for waking him up, and said that he'd get someone out there to fill it by the end of the week.

Mal could hardly believe it. He was still fuming, hours later, after he'd finished the rest of his chores in the stables, and set out to solve the problem himself. He composed a rant in his head as he walked, what he wished he'd said to his supervisor. _Maybe them fancified horses are a dime a dozen here on Sihnon, but I'll be damned if any horse breaks its leg in a hole on my watch._

Not to mention the fact that if it did happen, he would likely be fired, and his mission would be over before it had even begun.

Mal found the garden he was looking for, one of about seven Davis had pointed out on the tour. It stretched along the left side of the mansion, complete with fountains, benches and a few baffling sculptures.

The epithet of 'garden' was being awfully generous, Mal thought. He couldn't see a single edible plant, nor many plants at all. Most of it was covered in rocks. Like gravel, but smooth and pretty, arranged in a design to suggest ripples on water. Mal picked up a handful and frowned. Three buckets would be enough to fill the hole, if he covered the top with straw. Not ideal, but it was the best he could do.

He dropped into a crouch at the edge of the garden, where the rocks met the lawn, and started scooping them up by the fistful. They smacked the bottom of the bucket with a clatter.

A hiss sliced through the noise. Mal lifted his head. At that same moment, a wave of water hit the back of his neck, and didn't stop coming, soaking his collar in the second it took for him to drop the bucket and turn around.

A sprinkler head had reared up out of the lawn, going about its task with a high, arcing spray that shot out on all sides.

"What the _gǒu cāo de xī niú guī sūnzi-"_ Mal sputtered, lifting his hands to block his face. He stumbled back, out of reach of the sprinkler, and his foot landed in the bucket. He kept moving out of sheer backward momentum, until he lost his balance altogether.

The rocks did not make for a soft landing.

Mal growled through clenched teeth, _"Son_ of a-"

"Stop right where you are."

Mal scrabbled in the rocks as he turned around, dragging the bucket along with him, its handle looped around his ankle. He blinked, shading his eyes, to see who had spoken.

A young woman stood a safe distance away from him. Mal couldn't see her face too well in the glare of the sun. A mane of thick, black curls circled her head, laced with golden light. A glow traced her slender arms, and finely-tailored tunic. She wielded a stick with both hands, like a sword.

Mal might have laughed, but he knew he looked at least twice as ridiculous himself.

"You should know we do not tolerate trespassers. I've called the groundskeeper." She tossed her head, to indicate the service panel on a low stone wall at the opposite end of the garden. "He'll be here any moment."

"You _called the-"_ Mal scrambled to his feet. He kicked the bucket off his foot, and set his jaw, staring down the Core-worlder. He jabbed a finger toward the service panel. "Didja happen to turn on the sprinklers, too?"

She scoffed, mouth falling open. "I don't have to answer to _you."_

"Oh, no, Miss." Mal half-rolled his eyes. "'Course not. Naturally, you assume I'm here to steal your precious rocks. You couldn't have just _asked_ me what I was doin'."

The girl blinked, mouth still open, staring at Mal. At last, she shut her mouth, and dropped the stick. She crossed her arms.

"Alright, then." Her eyebrows arched. "What were you doing?"

"Well, Miss, I'm Councilor Zhi's new stable hand. It's my job to care for those horses of his. But this mornin', I found a hole out in the middle of their pasture. Know what can happen if a horse sticks her pretty leg down a hole?"

The girl stared at him, mouth pursed.

"She'll break it," Mal said grimly. "And a horse with a broken leg is a dead horse." He threw out a hand, toward the bucket. "So I came up here to get a couple buckets of rocks, so I can fill up that hole. The horses keep their legs, and I keep my job."

Silence reigned for a long moment. Mal sensed it would be proper, for someone of his station, to avert his gaze. But he kept his eyes even with the girl's. Standing upright, and not so blinded by the sun, Mal could see her face. Her brows were dark, furrowed over darker eyes, which glinted with a heat he felt on his skin.

"I'm assuming this is your first job," she said at last. Her Core diction was so sharp, Mal wondered if she ever cut her tongue on it. "Or your first job on Sihnon, at least."

Mal tilted his head, with a smile of barely-contained contempt.

She matched it ounce for ounce. "I suggest you learn a bit more about the landscape here, before you cart off buckets of stones from your employer's Zen garden. That is, if you'd like to keep your job."

Mal opened his mouth, to thank her for the advice, but he was interrupted by Talmai Davis, stomping toward them. The man's face had cracked at last, into a scowl. Mal decided he liked the blank expression better.

"What the _hell-"_ He got close enough to see the girl, and almost fell over. "Hel-Hello, Miss- uh, forgive me, Miss…"

"Miss Serra. I'm the one who called you, groundskeeper." The girl shot Mal a glance, before she added, "But it was a mistake."

"What happened?" Davis looked down at the rocks in disarray, the discarded bucket, and lifted his eyes to glare at Mal. "What have you done?"

"He did nothing wrong," the girl cut in, before Mal could defend himself. He shot her a look. If she noticed, she didn't show it. She continued to address Davis in a smooth, entitled voice that made the hairs on Mal's neck bristle.

"I wanted to rearrange the stones in the garden, and I asked him to help me. The fountains were in our way, as you can see," she gestured to Mal's dripping shirt, "so I tried to turn them off, and called you by mistake."

She shook her head in self-deprecation, and flashed Davis a dazzling smile. Mal hated when people said that of smiles, but in this case it applied. He wasn't even the recipient, and he was almost dazzled by it himself.

"Sorry to hear you were having trouble. Anything I can do to help, so Wesley can get back to the stables?" Davis pointed the last bit at Mal.

"No, thank you," said the girl. "I must be going, actually."

"Yes, Miss Serra." The groundskeeper gave her a clumsy bow. "Again, I apologize…"

"No need." Another smile, serene and gracious, and this one she lifted to Mal, as if granting him some kind of honor. "Thank you for all your help, Wesley."

He nodded gruffly. If Miss Serra expected him to fall all over himself with gratitude that she lied to his supervisor on his behalf, she could forget it. He watched her walk away, toward the front drive, where a sleek chromium land speeder waited for her. Mal wondered where she was going.

Davis grunted. Mal snapped his eyes back to him.

"Listen up." The man snatched the bucket from the ground, and shoved it into Mal's arms. "I don't know how you ended all the way up here, but let me make this clear: you are the stable hand. You work in the stables. You don't leave the stables unless I ask you to. Got that?"

"Got it." Mal nodded. "But say, sir… This garden has given me an idea." He lifted the bucket. "What if I used stones to fill that hole out in the field? I could do it myself, that way you won't have to worry about it."

Davis stared at him, settling back into his dead mask. "Fine. But not these. You can get some out of the gardener's supply, if you ask him." He pointed to a large, well-furnished shed some ways beyond the mansion. "He should be there."

"Thank you, sir. I'll be on my way, then." Mal grinned. "Have a nice day!"

He left Davis with his hands on his hips, staring after Mal, shaking his head.

Mal's smile lasted all of two seconds, before slipping into a grimace.

That girl, _Miss Serra,_ had brought him within an inch of disaster. With her stupid stick, prepared to defend herself against him. She'd almost gotten Mal fired, then plucked him back from the edge, with the power of her fine clothes and elocution. Mal's neck grew hot when he thought about it.

_Who is she, anyway?_ He shook his head. It didn't matter. Mal knew a _zǒugǒu_ when he saw one. Alliance-bred and fed, without a doubt. Just because she'd extended herself to protect him, for whatever reason, didn't mean he owed her a single moment of consideration.

The gardener's shed loomed ahead, and Mal gripped the bucket handle, reminded of his purpose. _Fill the hole, keep the job, stick to your mission._ He shoved the girl, smile and all, out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> _rén zhā_ \- useless person, human garbage  
>  _hùndàn_ \- prick, a**hole  
>  _gǒu cāo de xī niú guī sūnzi_ \- dog-f*cking, cow-sucking, bastard son of a turtle  
>  _zǒugǒu_ \- lapdog (as in, someone who flatters/lives to please those in power)
> 
> (A/N): I would be thrilled to hear any impressions of Mal and Inara's first encounter, or of the story in general. Even if you only have time for one or two words, it would mean the world to me! Constructive criticism is especially welcome.
> 
> I hope to see you in the next chapter. Until then, stay awesome!


	4. Curiosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello hello! First off, I must apologize for that unplanned hiatus. I got waylaid with Real Life and other projects, and I also kind of lost my nerve. But I'm over it (I think) and now I'm back! I can assure you that I do plan to see this story through. I may have stepped away for a moment, but never once did I think of abandoning it.
> 
> With that, I'm very pleased to present Chapter 4.
> 
> Soundtrack \- **Inara's Theme:** "Flowers [feat. Nori]" by In Love With a Ghost, _Let's Go - EP (2017) ___

_03 - 06 - 2506_

"What do you suppose boys are _really_ like?"

It took Inara a moment to register the question, and pull away from her human anatomy text. She straightened up, with a frown.

Inara and Riz sat sat beside each other on their favorite perch: the wide, cushioned windowsill in Inara's room. Riz had turned toward the sun-dappled afternoon, dangling her legs out the open window. Inara faced the other direction, her lap covered with light-paper and pages of hand-written notes.

Riz held a lock of her hair up to the sun, where it shone gold. "Boys our age, I mean."

"What are you talking about?" It came out shorter than Inara intended. "We've met plenty of boys, at the Functions."

"The Functions." Riz scoffed. "Those aren't real life, Inara. There are Chaperones around every pillar, and if you try to talk to any of the boys, just talk to them, they go all red, and clam up."

Inara couldn't disagree. Companions-in-training went into the Functions eager to flex their conversation skills and, yes, to interact with living, breathing young men. They were often disappointed. The sons of Sihnon's wealthiest families might be brilliant and charming under normal circumstances, but when placed next to a future Companion, they seemed to forget their own names.

It was likely because they were dwelling on the fact that they would contract with these women, as clients, in a few years' time.

Inara set aside her tablet. "So, you want to know what boys are like when we're not there to intimidate them?"

"Yes." Riz leaned on the word, palms pressed into her thighs. Inara had to smile.

Not all Companions serviced men, and most serviced all genders, but in either case, curiosity was natural. Men of any age weren't allowed inside most Training Houses, Madrassa included. Even Houses for male Companions barred entrance to those who weren't training or teaching there.

Riz often complained about their sequestered lifestyle. Inara didn't mind it, really. She didn't even think about it, most of the time.

But that was before she'd had a face-to-face, un-Chaperoned interaction with a flesh-and-blood boy.

"I think we might be better off not knowing," she said, voice light.

Riz raised an eyebrow at her. "You think we can learn everything we need to know from a lecture. But there's nothing like first-hand experience, if you ask me." She made a fist, and tapped it against her knee. "If only we could see what boys are like around normal girls." Her eyes brightened, snapping to Inara's. "We could go undercover."

Inara shook her head, with a laugh. "Riz."

"I'm serious." Riz lifted one leg onto the windowsill, turning toward her. "We could sneak out one night, and-"

"Get caught by the Priestess, who would turn us into stone sculptures with one glare," Inara finished.

Riz smirked. "It'd be worth it."

"I'm not so sure about that." Inara picked up her tablet again, and turned it on, trying to direct her focus back to her impending Holistic Physiology exam.

Her eyes scanned the text without absorbing a single word. All she could see was her father's stable boy, hair dripping water over his brow, standing up to face her. The way he'd called her _"Miss,"_ shaping the title into an insult on his tongue.

To be fair, she had turned the sprinklers on him. She'd done it to catch him off guard, give her a chance to cut off his escape. Inara blushed, to imagine how she must have looked, brandishing a stick against the boy.

Inara had managed two pages before Riz tipped her eyes over the top of her animated graphic novel, and broke the quiet.

"Don't you have to meet with the Priestess this afternoon?"

Inara sprang to her feet, notes and tablet tumbling off her lap.

 _"Aiya,"_ she breathed. "I completely forgot."

She scrambled to pull her slippers onto her feet, throwing a robe over her shoulders, to wrap around her plain camisole. Riz looked on, amused, as Inara flew to her mirror, and winced.

 _"Zhè shì shén me,"_ she muttered. She tugged her unruly curls into a bun, securing it with a pair of jade hair sticks.

"There's something going on with you." Riz tilted her head. "You've been so out of orbit, this whole week."

"Have I?" Inara smoothed the silk robe across her chest, knotting it around her waist.

"If you weren't about to be late, I'd make you sit down right now, and tell me what's wrong."

Inara clasped her friend's hand, and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

"There's nothing to tell." She smiled through the pang that tore into her stomach. "I'm fine."

Riz pursed her coral lips, skeptical, but let Inara go, and returned to her light-paper comic. Inara slipped into the corridor, with a deep breath.

She let her mind be contained by the walls around her, and picked up her feet to hurry down the hall.

 

"How have you been?" A cup of toasted rice green tea accompanied Priestess Song's question.

Inara accepted the cup with a smile. "Very well, thank you."

The Priestess arched her brow. "I wasn't asking as a pleasantry. Try again."

Inara breathed in the rising steam, and stalled, eyes brushing over the room.

Priestess Song had chosen minimal décor for her private quarters, limiting the furniture to floor cushions and a low tea table. Her parlor distinguished itself from the rest of the house, with its rich ornamentation and dark, warm hues. Min preferred a subtler palette of spring green, greys and browns. The room had always calmed Inara, since before she had the words to express it.

She sighed. "I'm not sure how to answer, if I'm honest."

"It's always a good idea to be honest."

 _Always?_ Inara dropped her eyes to her lap.

 _"Qīn ài de,_ what's troubling you?"

Inara crossed an arm over her chest, to rub her shoulder. She opened her mouth, only to close it again.

"The examination period is a difficult time," said Priestess Song, with a knowing nod. "Difficult, and emotional, for any Companion-in-training. But especially for you, I think."

Inara ducked her eyes to her cup. Her throat cinched, in anticipation.

"You were born in this House. You grew up here. It's only natural that you have reservations about leaving." A smile curved Min's voice. "Madrassa has become a part of you, and it seems impossible to imagine yourself anywhere else. I felt the same way."

Inara looked up. "You trained here," she said, remembering. _With my mother._

"Yes." Min's eyes warmed. "And I've never been able to keep away for long. I contracted on a pleasure ship for just two years before I returned, to serve as Apprentice to the former Priestess. I was 25 when I stepped into the position myself."

"Have you ever-" Inara paused, "…wished you'd chosen a different path?"

"Never." The Priestess shook her head. "It has been difficult. More difficult than I ever imagined, but infinitely more rewarding, as well. To run Madrassa, and help each trainee find her place here. It's not a responsibility I take lightly, which is why I've devoted much thought as to whom I will train to replace me."

Inara knit her brow. "You're retiring?"

"This is my 20th year. Each Priestess remains in the position for no more than 25. Within the last five years, she must allow at least two for the training of an Apprentice to succeed her."

Inara held Min's eyes. _An Apprentice._ The word warmed her throat, cradled there.

"I'm telling you this, Inara, because I want to offer the Apprenticeship to you."

Inara's pulse lashed her wrists. Her hands locked around her tea cup. She stared back at the Priestess, mind swept clean of words.

Min lifted a hand. "Such an offer wouldn't be made until your graduation ceremony. You have plenty of time to consider how you'll respond. However." She laid the word down, firm. "This represents a momentous commitment, for the both of us. If you want this, you'll have to prove it. To do that you must watch, learn, and show me what you're capable of. You'll spend hours a day as my shadow, several times a week, for the next seven months. That's in addition to your examinations. Are you willing to take that on?"

"Yes." It flushed her to the fingertips, free of hesitation. She only faltered the moment after, a hitch in her breath. "But why me?"

"I see all the necessary qualities in you. Patience, compassion, focus. But most importantly, I see your love for this House." Min's voice flickered, lit from within. "To be Priestess means to love Madrassa more than anything else. More than success, more than fame, more than all of the material rewards your friends and your father may be encouraging you to pursue."

Inara swallowed. No doubt Solomon would have something to say about his daughter following in the footsteps of Min Song, pursuing the Priestesshood, instead of a placement in a Companion establishment.

She smiled. "I'm honored by your consideration, Priestess. I will strive to prove myself worthy of it."

"Wonderful." Min smiled in return. "Now, let me present your first lesson in how a Priestess maintains her House. It has to do with honesty." She lifted the teapot, and poured them both another cup. "As you know, I hold weekly meetings with each trainee in the last months leading up to her graduation. To air her doubts, her dreams, her difficulties. There are no secrets, and no subject is off-limits. In that vein, we must discuss what happened last Sunday."

Inara inhaled a sip of tea down her windpipe. Her eyes widened, as she muffled a cough into her hand. "What… what do you mean?"

"I imagine you feel I was unduly harsh with you."

 _The tea ceremony exam._ Inara let out a breath. She shook her head. "No, not at all-"

"As a matter of fact, I was," Min interrupted. "And I will continue to be. For your own sake." She set down her tea cup, eyes levelling to Inara's. "If you were to make a mistake like that in your final evaluation, the Guild would not hesitate to dismiss you then and there. They will be infinitely stricter with you."

Inara bit the inside of her lip. "Because of my mother?" she asked, feather-light.

"In a way, yes. Not because of Kalindi herself, but because you are a _bǎo wù._ A child of a Companion, in the eyes of the Guild, has an unfair advantage over other trainees. They adjust their evaluation rubric accordingly."

"Of course." Inara ducked her eyes. "I'm grateful to you, for not allowing my mistake to go unremarked." She looked back up, and took in a breath. "I won't disappoint you again."

Priestess Song extended her hands across the table. Inara set aside her tea cup, and placed her own in the woman's cool, gentle hold.

"Listen to me." Min squeezed Inara's fingers. "You mustn't let the pressure of these coming months overpower you."

Inara nodded.

"It's unfortunate that your exam period coincides with the Election Session. Your father is under enormous stress, in the race for the Chancellor seat. Whatever he may be saying about your future, take it with a grain of rice." Min's mouth pinched tight. "Remember, he is an outsider. He doesn't understand our world as well as he thinks he does."

"Yes, Priestess." Inara had learned long ago not to defend her father to Min, or vice versa. The two didn't see eye to eye. It was a waste of breath to try and reconcile them.

The Priestess released Inara's hands, but not her eyes. "I sense that something happened, during your last visit. Would you like to talk about it?"

Inara held her breath. She did, more than anything. _But honesty is not always a good idea._

"I behaved in a manner that I regret," she said at last. No doubt, Min thought this referred to an argument with her father. Inara wasn't going to correct her. "I took out my frustration on someone who did nothing to cause it. He certainly wasn't without fault," she added, "but he didn't deserve to be treated that way."

Min hummed in thought. "It sounds as if the issue is unresolved."

"Maybe. But I don't think he wants me to-" _Speak to him, ever again, probably._ "Dredge the matter up," Inara finished.

"Never assume what someone else is thinking. You've been trained to perceive the emotions of others, and to read body language as fluently as Chinese or English. But you have not yet advanced to the level of mind-reading." Her lips curled, then fell serious. "All you know is that you feel you did wrong by this person. All you can control is how you remedy that wrong."

"What should I do?" Inara asked, even as the answer crept up her neck.

"Apologize." The Priestess confirmed it. "Whatever happens after that is up to him, but he won't begrudge you a sincere apology."

Inara thought of the stable boy's eyes, keen and cold, glaring at her. _He might._

But she left Min's parlor with one certainty, rooting down through her heels. The following day, after visiting her father, Inara was going to find the boy with the bucket, and set things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _Zhè shì shén me_ \- What [the heck] is this (very mild exclamation)
> 
>  _Qīn ài de_ \- My dear
> 
> (A/N): They drink a lot of tea in House Madrassa. They're a very well-hydrated bunch. Before you take off, I would so appreciate a word or two of response to this chapter. What are your impressions of Inara's relationship with the Priestess? I'm curious to hear how it comes off. And I'd be especially grateful for any constructive criticism you might have to offer.
> 
> So, does Inara manage to 'set things right' with the stable boy? *wink* You'll just have to stay tuned to find out - I'll be back next Wednesday with Chapter 5 (pinky promise.) Until then, hope you all have a real shiny week!


	5. Thorns and Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and happy Wednesday! A big thanks to those who have left kudos and bookmarked so far - your support really means a lot. I hope you continue to enjoy.

Mal bit his lip. Flicking his eyes between the service panel set into the wall of his bunkroom, and the notebook in his hands, he pressed the pen against the paper, and began to write. Or try to, at least.

The hired help on Councilor Zhi's estate were all given a basic timeline of the man's schedule, which indicated only when their boss planned to be away. It didn't specify where he was going, but luckily Mal was good at making friends. His newest friend was the cook, whom he'd met on the pretense of seeking a certain rare herb, to treat a horse with indigestion.

The cook didn't have the herb. It would've been surprising if he had, considering Mal had made it up.

A separate building housed the kitchen, connected to the mansion by an underground walkway. Mal had found the cook alone there, wrapping what looked like hundreds of red bean paste balls in rice-flour dough. It turned out that Galileo Shen, who insisted Mal call him Leo, had been working for Zhi going on twenty years. Leo prepared an advance supply of these bean paste desserts every time the Councilor had to leave Sihnon, the only planet where the ingredients were available.

"He's off to Londinium tomorrow, for the opening of the Parliamentary session," Leo had explained. "Then they meet for the next six months, two days a week. But there's also the Military Council meetings, every other week, and those can change up to the last minute, depending on whatever _fàng pì_ they have to deal with from the Border planets…" The cook tossed his paste-covered hands, shaking his head.

"That's a lot of bean paste balls," Mal had remarked. He promised to drop in again and say hello, whenever he had a few minutes free.

Then he'd rushed back to the stables, bursting at the seams. That past week, he'd gone through near every single drudge on Zhi's estate, digging up any excuse he could think of to start a conversation. At last, he'd found someone useful. Leo Shen had exactly the kind of information Mal's superiors wanted. But it had to pass through the proper avenues of communication first.

Anders had explained it all to Mal, though he didn't need to; anybody with eyes could see the Alliance stamp on all comms technology that existed, and deduce that the stamp spelled surveillance. Every transmission was recorded and sent up into their data cloud. From missile codes to grocery lists; if it was sent through the Cortex, the Feds could get their hands on it.

The solution, of course, was to go Old-tech. _Really_ Old-tech.

Mal had not had much occasion to work with paper, or write by hand, back on Shadow. In school and in business most people used tablets; they were cheap enough, and useful. His mother had showed him how she kept the books, using a pencil and paper, but Mal hadn't had much patience for it.

If he'd known that one day he would be trying to write out a message with ink and paper as an Independent spy, he would've paid more attention.

At last, he managed to get it all down. A calendar grid for the month of March, which marked the dates when Councilor Zhi would be gone, where he would be, and what would he would be doing there. There were a few blank spaces, but Mal could fill those in later, maybe after chatting a bit more with the cook.

Mal nodded to himself. He wouldn't be winning any calligraphy contests, but it was legible enough.

He tore the page from the notebook and folded it up, to tuck in his pocket. A glance at the service panel told him the delivery speeder would be arriving in ten minutes, to drop off that week's supplies for the estate.

Mal turned to leave, then stopped. He couldn't be seen hanging around the front driveway any longer than necessary. _Best to wait._ He flopped backwards into his chair, with a sigh.

If any aspect of spying for the Independents might kill him, Mal decided, it was the waiting around. Cooling his heels in his tidy, soulless bunk room. Not to mention the hours he had to spend doing the job he supposedly came there for.

He liked working in the stables, truth to say. Muscle memory had kicked in, though almost four years had passed since he last worked with horses, caring and keeping them. The Councilor owned seven, all of them shimmery and thin-legged animals who could never have managed one day's work on a ranch.

Mal shook his head, and stood back up. The mirror on the back of the door tossed his reflection at him. He grimaced.

If the waiting didn't kill him, then his service uniform surely would. It had arrived a couple days before, tailor-made for him. Mal had never been measured for clothing before in his life. It made him feel like a doll, dressed up to his master's specifications.

The uniform came all in one piece, a dark grey jumpsuit of very fine material, with two rows of gold buttons making a kind of 'V' shape across his chest. Mal had to admit, it fit him well. _A little too well,_ he thought, twisting to see the rear view. He scowled, and tugged at the upright collar, snug around his neck.

 _If I'd been wearin' this little ensemble last Sunday,_ he mused, _maybe that Core-born girl wouldn't've taken me for some kinda fugitive pebble poacher._

Back on Shadow, everyone more or less dressed the same. But here, your clothes broadcasted everything about you. Everything that mattered, anyway. The only thing that mattered about Mal was that he worked in service. Convenient for Councilor Zhi and his sort. They didn't have to bother treating him like a human being.

But doubt lingered, small yet persistent, like an insect crawling up Mal's neck. No matter how many times he'd brushed it off that past week, it came back.

Why had the girl gone out of her way to lie for him? Flashing her smile at the groundskeeper, on Mal's behalf, minutes after she'd threatened him with a stick. Judging by her accent and attitude, she was as high-born as they came. Likely related by blood or social ties to Councilor Zhi.

It didn't make any kind of sense. But here on Sihnon, it seemed, nothing did. The only thing that mattered, that Mal could count on, was his mission.

He gave his reflection a nod, and opened the door.

 

Mal took the scenic route up the hillside toward the drive, through a display of roses in full bloom. They'd been genetically manipulated to grow thick and thorny, into a maze-like hedge that made for convenient cover.

When he emerged, the deliver speeder was starting off. Mal waved it down, and jogged over. His heartbeat, meanwhile, broke into a sprint.

He reached the vehicle, and squinted up at the driver, shading his eyes. "Thought I recognized you," he said, casual as he could. "Been a long time."

Mal had never seen the man before in his life, of course, except in the picture Anders had shown him. He'd been given a name, Emory Osborne, but it was an alias, no doubt. Only one thing about the man Mal knew for certain.

He was from Shadow.

The driver hopped down from his speeder. "It surely has." The lilt of his speech fell on Mal's ears like a familiar song.

He smiled. "You'll be flyin' my way again?" The security question.

"Same time next week," Emory replied. This was the affirmative. If he said anything different, it meant he couldn't take any messages.

They smiled at each other, just like old friends would, but there was something grim in it. The driver pulled Mal into a close handshake, thumping him on the back. Mal took the opportunity to slip the piece of paper from his palm, into the driver's.

"Wish I could stay and shoot the bull, but I got other deliveries to make." Emory shoved his hand into his pocket, and swung himself by one burly arm back into the speeder.

Mal lifted a hand. "You take care."

The entire interaction lasted less than a minute. Mal crunched down the drive, back toward the mansion, fighting a grin. All he had to do now was get back to the stables, without being seen.

Of course, his luck chose that moment to run out.

A figure lumbered up the side of the mansion, in his direction. Mal stopped in his tracks.

 _"Tā mā de,"_ he muttered.

He had to wonder if a tracking tag had been stitched into his uniform, _wouldn't be a surprise,_ because Talmai Davis always seemed to show up whenever Mal was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. The man had already lectured him four times that week on his "aimless wandering." A fifth occasion might cause the groundskeeper's scant reserve of patience to dry up once and for all.

Mal followed his first instinct. _Hide. Now._ He dove sideways, into the hedge on the garden's perimeter, without giving full consideration to the fact that it was bristling with thorns.

 _"Tā mā de niǎo,"_ Mal growled under his breath, fighting the vines that latched onto his uniform, his skin, everywhere. He ignored the prickly reception and wriggled deeper into the hedge. Through the leaves, he saw Davis stop about fifteen feet away, and lift his head. His brow furrowed as he peered in the direction of the rose garden.

"Good afternoon, Davis."

Mal jumped, and bit down another curse, as a thorn found purchase on his ear. A girl's voice- no, _the_ girl's voice, had come from behind him. Miss Serra entered Mal's line of sight, coming out of the rose garden.

"Miss." Davis dipped his head to her. "Thought I heard someone over there."

She wore the same outfit as the week before, a plain yet well-made tunic and pants, with a thin gold rope tied around her waist. _A uniform?_ Mal wondered. Or maybe a one-note wardrobe was the latest trend amongst Sihnon's well-to-do youth.

"I was just admiring the Queen Isabella rose," she said. "Do give Sonder my compliments, when you see him."

"Of course." Davis bowed. "Afternoon, Miss."

The man trudged away, toward the drive. Mal let out his breath.

It caught in his throat when Miss Serra turned around, and looked right into his hiding place.

"You can come out, now."

Mal started to tear himself free. "How'd you know I was-"

She cut him off with an arch of her brow. Then she saw the vines holding fast to his uniform, catching on his neck, and her face pinched in sympathy.

"Oh, _hǎo kě lián."_ Before Mal could do anything to stop her, she was tugging plant matter out of his collar, and hair, helping him escape the shrub's claws. She lifted a hand, nearly brushing his cheek. "You're bleeding…"

Mal edged out of her reach. He shot the girl a look, eyes narrowed. "That's the second time you've covered for me. Why?"

She held his gaze. "Because I know why you were hiding from him."

His lungs filled with lead. He gaped at her.

"I also know I'm at least partially to blame," she finished, with a small smile.

Mal grasped her meaning, and gave a minute shake of his head. Of course she didn't know anything. _Idiot,_ he scolded himself.

"The new groundskeeper is not the warmest person I've met. If he were my supervisor, I would hide, too. Though perhaps not in a rosebush." The girl drew one foot behind her, dipping into a curtsy, as she lifted a hand. "Inara Serra."

Mal looked at her hand. She'd offered it knuckles-up, _a mighty strange way to go about a handshake._ He took hold of it, and tried anyway. The girl's eyes got big. She made to pull her hand back, in obvious confusion.

Then, he got it. She'd offered her hand for him to _kiss._

Mal shifted his grip, to hold her fingers gingerly. Her hand froze in his, as he lifted her knuckles to his mouth, and bumped his lips against them. He didn't take his eyes from hers, daring her to mock his mistake. She stared up at him. Her lips parted, as if halfway between a laugh and something else.

When at last they broke contact, Mal's head was buzzing. He swallowed. The girl, _Inara,_ was looking at him, expectant.

"Uh, I'm Mal."

The second it left his mouth, the cold certainty of disaster struck hard. Like a spaceship collision, it unfolded in utter silence, wrenching the air between them.

"I thought your name was Wesley," Inara ventured.

"It is." His words strung together in a rush, "But Mal's my nickname, short for Malachi, which is my middle name."

"So, you're Wesley Malachi…"

"Gale," Mal finished. "But my old man is Wesley, so uh, call me Mal."

Inara bit her lip, ducking her eyes. "I'm afraid it wouldn't be proper. I wouldn't want to-" she hesitated, "presume any familiarity between us…"

"'Course not," Mal said quickly. "Call me whatever you want." With a bit of an edge, he added, "After all, you don't answer to me."

She winced. Apparently, she recognized the words she'd thrown at him the week before.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Serra. I oughta get back to the stables." He started to move past her.

"Wait-" Her hand brushed his arm.

He turned.

"I was… looking for you, actually," she said, breathless. "I wanted to apologize."

Mal furrowed his brow. "For what?"

"For my behavior, when we first met. I made an assumption- several, in fact, and I treated you unfairly. I hope you can forgive me, but if not, I understand." She lifted her shoulders, only to let them fall. "I just wanted to convey my regret."

"Well, I wasn't too friendly, either." Mal rubbed his shoulder, eyes drifting to the side, before he forced them back to hers. "I'm sorry for gettin' short with you. And for, uh, cussin' like I did. I never would've used that kinda language if I'd known you were there."

"I believe that." Her mouth curled, twitching at the corners. "I appreciate, and accept, your apology."

"Yeah, so do I." Mal cleared his throat. "I mean, I accept yours, too."

Her smile broke open, and _aiya,_ it was like staring into the White Sun. Mal decided there ought to be a law against smiles like hers. Or some kind of restriction, to prevent its unlawful use around mortal men. A verifiable concealed weapon. Fortunately, she ducked her gaze, so she didn't see Mal blinking, stunned.

She looked back up at him, and tucked a curl behind her ear. Mal caught a flash of light, glinting off gold. A closer look revealed it was an earring, no bigger than a 2.5-platinum coin, with six engraved stars. They formed an unmistakable pattern, one that turned Mal's stomach.

The girl wore the symbol of the Alliance flag. Tagged with it, on her ear, the same way they used to tag cattle, on Shadow. Mal fought to keep his disgust from showing on his face.

She kept on glowing at him. "I'm so very glad we're _yàohǎo,_ now."

"Yeah." His mouth twitched. _I most definitely ain't_ yàohǎo _with no Alliance royalty, like you._

"You should clean those scratches," she glanced at his neck, "so they don't become infected."

"I'll be fine," Mal said coolly. "But thanks for your concern."

"Well." Her eyes dimmed. "I shouldn't keep you from your work, and get you in more trouble than I already have."

"You're no trouble at all, Miss." Mal tipped her a small bow. _"Zhù dùguò yúkuài de yītiān,"_ he chirped.

She gave him a thin smile. "Goodbye, Wesley," she said, soft.

Mal watched her walk away, curls bouncing against her shoulders, and chewed his lower lip. No trouble. He shook his head.

He almost dropped to his knees right there in the rose garden, to lift a prayer up to the Lord. For his own sake, and for the sake of his mission, Mal prayed he never crossed paths with Inara Serra again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
>  _fàng pì_ \- nonsense, bullsh*t  
>  _Tā mā de niǎo_ \- f*cking hell (lit. "his mother's dick," a touch stronger than tā mā de)  
>  _hǎo kě lián_ \- poor thing  
>  _yàohǎo_ \- to be on good terms with someone, friendly  
>  _Zhù dùguò yúkuài de yītiān_ \- Have a nice day


	6. Unraveled

_03 - 14 - 2506_

"Reporting live from the Capitol Square, our own Oriza Caleros brings you the latest on the Border, after some inclement new developments. Oriza?"

The Cortex display in Priestess Song's parlor flashed to the iconic shot of the enormous Capitol coliseum, its white stone a dull grey beneath the snow currently smothering most of Londinium's northeastern hemisphere. The field anchor nodded, one pink-gloved hand pressed to her earpiece.

"Good afternoon to you, Worth, and to our honorable viewers. This morning the newly-formed Independent Faction released their so-called 'Manifesto,' uniting extremist dissenters on over a dozen planets, among them Hera, Shadow, and Persephone. This is just two days after another attempted takeover of an Alliance peacekeeping base in Terr, on Hera."

A brief security footage clip played out, silent, of two dozen people in long brown coats bursting into a compound with rifles and clubs, unleashing chaos in blurred movement across the screen. Inara knit her brow, drawing closer, even as her stomach turned. Several bodies had dropped, both Independents and peacekeepers, when the feed cut back abruptly to the reporter in Capitol Square.

"Universal Relations Chancellor Deomar Sutherland has released an official statement, affirming that Parliament is confident in the success of its coming round of negotiations with planetary officials regarding the Unification process. Their course of action has not changed." She punctuated with a bob of her head. "Returning to you, Worth."

"Our gratitude, Oriza. And now, we turn to the latest in technology. A new line of fully emotive love bots rolls out this month-"

The screen flickered to black. Inara gave a small jump, and stood up. Priestess Song had slipped into the room and turned off the console without her notice, without a sound.

"I hope you weren't waiting long." When Inara shook her head, the Priestess gestured to the door, with a smile. "Shall we begin?"

Inara followed in Min's wake down the hallway. She brushed away lingering echoes of 'extremist dissenters' and 'negotiations' in her ears, in order to listen to the plan for their session that morning: a tour of the Center for Healing and Wellness, located in the lowest level of the House.

Outside the ornately-carved wooden door, Inara levelled her shoulders, and pressed herself up straight. Pulling a taut breath inward, she descended the stairs behind the Priestess, careful not to tread on the trailing hem of the woman's brocaded satin dress.

An enormous cavern stretched before them, full of soft, golden light. Lamps hanging overhead tossed their glow onto the stone walls, and cut diamonds into the channels of water which gurgled along the walkways. The bathing pools lay placid and clear, save a few occupied by trainees, talking in low voices.

"I encourage everyone to meet with our Practitioners often, not only when they have a specific complaint," said the Priestess as she led Inara through the baths. "Of course, for any serious injuries or illnesses, we must refer to the hospitals in Lu'Weng. But I hold that regular self-care, as well as mind-and-body awareness maintained through daily meditation, keep us alert to issues within ourselves before they become a grave threat."

They came to the well-lit area the far end of the cavern, divided by a series of half-walls. The Practitioners, half a dozen women dressed in light blue and white robes, bustled back and forth, in conversation with each other, or tapping on tablets. Each one paused to greet the Priestess with a bow as she went past.

Inara's eyes were pulled like magnets to the row of doors set into the back wall. Consultations and examinations took place in the private rooms, the Priestess explained in passing, and also served to house patients if they couldn't be moved.

"Such cases are very rare." Her voice reached Inara as if through layers of static. "But when it does happen, we're prepared."

Inara nodded. She fought the heaviness spreading through her. It was the same every time she came back to this place, and saw the doors carved from smooth, impassive stone.

_"You were so young,"_ everyone always said. _"Too young to remember."_

But it wasn't true. A part of her did. It came awake in the hollow of her chest, making every breath a conscious effort.

"It has not escaped my notice, Inara, that you don't visit the Center very frequently." The Priestess turned to look at her, for the first time since they'd descended the stairs. She arched her brow. "Maintaining the integrity of one's health is absolutely necessary in our work."

"Yes, Priestess," said Inara smoothly. "I've sought to make it a constant practice. I simply don't have any need to come here."

Priestess Song pursed her lips, and looked toward the private rooms. "I understand you have certain painful associations with this place," she said at last. "But you must overcome that. As Priestess, there can be no part of the House that you aren't comfortable in."

"Of course." Inara nodded. "I'm fine, truly."

Min's eyes held hers a moment longer, before she turned away, to lead Inara to another, smaller door off to the side. "Once a month I make a full check of the facilities. Our Head Practitioner shares with me any concerns or needs she may have, and together we review the medicine and herb stores."

She opened the door, and they stepped into a dark cubby of a room. The Priestess commanded the lights. A scant glow materialized along the edges of the ceiling, illuminating shelves full of jars and pots, Alliance-stamped boxes of immunization supplements nestled amongst bundles of dried herbs.

As Priestess Song listed off commonly requested supplements, Inara drifted toward a stack of dark brown jars, above the label 'Herbal Probiotic Ointment.' Distant memory sparked, warming the back of her neck. She picked up a jar, opened it, and breathed in.

Inara shut her eyes. With the suddenness of a dream the air shifted, and took on the weight of a woman's hands. Warm golden hands, wrapping Inara in a silk scarf and spinning her until she shrieked with joy. A smile, glinting in dark eyes, a voice murmuring praise over her toddler artwork.

Inara opened her eyes. She bit her lower lip, and turned the jar of ointment over in her hands. She thought, for some reason, of the stable boy. Blood beading along the scratches on his neck and ears, from the rough kiss of rosebush thorns.

"May I take one of these?" she blurted. The Priestess raised her eyebrows. Inara added, without thinking why, "My father's been complaining of sore joints…"

"Certainly." Priestess Song gestured to the small desk next to the wall. "Make a note on the Inventory board, and we'll inform one of the Practitioners before we leave."

Inara followed her instructions. The Priestess laid a hand on her shoulder, and Inara turned her head.

"Unless your father takes more concrete steps to reduce stress in his life, a simple herbal probiotic cream won't bring lasting change." Min's upward-angled eyes glinted, her irises almost as dark as her pupils.

Inara looked down at the pot in her hands. "I know." She looked back up at the Priestess. "But sometimes the gesture can do more good than the gift itself."

Min Song smiled warmly. "Spoken like a true Companion," she said.

 

Inara hesitated outside the door to her father's stables. The burnished clay pot weighed heavy in her hands.

"Honestly," she muttered through a sigh. "Just get it over with." She made herself open the door, and step through.

The air stuck in her throat, sour with a stench almost thick enough to touch. Inara coughed, lifting the back of her hand to her mouth. Nausea rolled through her stomach, but she kept walking, down the main aisle to the barn, toward the sound of metal scraping on cement. All the stable doors were flung open, the horses nowhere to be seen, no doubt turned out in their paddock.

"Um, hello?" Inara called. It came out more like a squeak.

Something clattered to the floor, followed by a muffled curse.

Inara reached the last stall, where she found Wesley bent over, picking a shovel out of the layer of muck at his feet. The handle, now slick with manure, he gripped in both hands, as he straightened up.

Inara's eyes widened.

Grime streaked his arms, up to his bare shoulders. He'd pulled off the upper half of his uniform, to tie the sleeves around his waist. Only a thin white undershirt remained. It clung to his skin, with a V-shaped shadow of sweat where it met his chest.

Inara was not at all unfamiliar with the male form. Madrassa trainees were cured of any tendency to blush at such things by age sixteen. But no visual aide had prepared her for a spectacle quite like this.

She fought the urge to look away, and met his eyes. They were a deep, thorough blue, a detail she had failed to notice until that moment.

"Hello, Wesley."

"Hi," he shot back.

"It seems I've come at a less-than-ideal time…" she started, uncertain. The smell had ebbed, only to return, just when she thought she'd adjusted. Her stomach rolled.

"Oh no, not at all." Wesley gave her a flat smile. "I'd offer you a seat, but-" He tossed a hand to indicate the straw and horse waste which coated the floor of the stall, and threatened to spill out of the wheeled hand cart beside him.

"It's alright." Inara took a few steps closer. "I won't stay long."

His eyes darted to the side, then back to hers. He leaned away slightly. "How can I help you, Miss Serra?"

"Actually, I hoped I might be able to help you."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Inara regretted them. Wesley turned away, to scoop up another shovelful of manure.

"Didn't mean to give the impression I needed any help," he said curtly.

"You didn't. But I found this…" She held up the pot. "Healing probiotic ointment. I thought of your encounter with the rosebush last week, and it struck me as something you could use, perhaps."

He turned back to her, and scoffed, "They weren't hardly nothin'. Most all healed up now, anyway."

"I'm glad to hear that." Inara set the pot on the edge of the stall. "But judging by our two previous encounters, you're more than a bit accident-prone." She smiled. "Perhaps it's best you take it, just in case."

Wesley's mouth curled at one corner. "You may not be wrong about that." He dug the shovel into the muck again, and tossed his head toward the ointment. "Thanks."

Inara's smile widened. "You're welcome."

Wesley's eyes stuck in hers, a moment too long. He dumped the shovel into the hand cart, clearing his throat.

"So, uh, you come here often?" He winced. "I mean, you live nearby?"

Inara raised her eyebrows. "I would've thought my outfit gave it away." All Companions-in-training from Madrassa wore the same beige linen tunic, with a golden cord knotted around the waist, to communicate their status to outsiders.

The stable boy gave her a blank look. "Gave what away?"

Inara's stomach flipped. _He doesn't know._ She hadn't considered she might have to explain to Wesley what Madrassa represented. _Surely he knows what a Companion is, doesn't he?_

Inara met his eyes. For the second time that day, impulse gripped her, tugging the words out before she could stop them.

"I attend school nearby. It's… a diplomacy academy." Inara gestured to herself. "This is our uniform."

Wesley looked the clothing up and down. "Shoulda guessed you were trainin' to be a politician." He smirked. "You're a good liar."

Inara's brow crinkled, before she realized he was referring to the two separate occasions she had covered for him, lying in order to divert the suspicion of his supervisor.

She smiled. "One might call it deception. I prefer the term discretion."

"They sound mighty similar though, don't they?" Wesley rested the shovel upright, leaning on the handle. "Judgin' by your affinity for politics, and the fact that you come here every week, I'm gonna take a wild guess that you're related to Councilor Zhi."

"He's my father."

A shudder rippled through Wesley's shoulders, so brief Inara decided she might have imagined it. She went on, "I'm permitted to visit him every Sunday, as my school is so close."

Wesley gave a slow nod. "Diplomacy academy. Huh." He turned away, to scoop debris from the corner of the stall. "You're gonna be, what? An Ambassador or something?" He turned back around, emptying the shovel into the cart.

"Something like that. And what about you?"

Wesley raised an eyebrow. "What am _I_ gonna be when I grow up?"

"No, I mean- what brought you to Sihnon?"

He shrugged. "Nothin' in particular. I needed a job." He turned away, to fill the shovel. "Got an uncle livin' here, he set me up." He dumped the shovel into the cart, and muttered, "Weren't much left for me back home."

"Where is that?" Inara asked gently.

"Shadow."

Inara nodded. "I know of it. There's some unrest there, I've heard," she ventured, watching Wesley's face.

He let out a grim half-laugh. "You could say that."

Inara eyed him. "So. You left home, and journeyed all the way to Sihnon, to seek your fortune?"

"Yep." Wesley hefted the shovel in his hands, lifting up a heap of manure. "And whaddya know, I found it."

Inara laughed. It caught her by surprise, and she forgot to cover her mouth. Wesley grinned at her. His real smile struck Inara as more real, somehow, than other people's. It took over his entire face, dimpling his cheeks, crinkling his eyes. But something jarred him, and the smile vanished. He scratched his temple, turning away.

Inara's heart dropped to her stomach. _Shǎguā._ She shook her head at herself. "I'm afraid I must be going."

"So soon?" Wesley returned, mock-sweet.

Inara's smile stiffened. "I do hope you'll find some use for the ointment."

"I'm sure I will." Wesley dumped the shovel into the cart, and paused, to look her in the eyes. "It was real kind of you think of me."

"Oh, no." She waved a hand. "It was nothing, really."

He leaned the shovel against the wall. "They give you extra credit, at your diplomatical school, for charity and good works?"

Inara's mouth fell open. _"No._ I-" She stopped, and knit her brow. "Why do you assume I must have some self-serving motive?"

Wesley showed his palms. "I'm not sayin' that."

"Then what _are_ you saying?" Inara crossed her arms.

"Look, forget it," he said, with some force, as he turned away. "Doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does." Inara's voice came out barbed. Something hot and irrepressible filled her quicker than she could push it down, pricking under her skin. "You don't believe I would speak to you unless there was something in it for me."

He stared at her, mouth hard. His response was unspoken, but unmistakable.

_Would you?_

"Believe it or not, I came down here because I thought you might like some company." Inara blushed, almost as if she were lying. Was she? "I see now I was mistaken."

"I'm sorry." The stable boy held perfectly still. His eyes probed hers. "I've offended you."

_How astute of you to notice,_ Inara wanted to snap. She lifted her chin. "I'll just say this. If you can't accept one act of kindness, you're destined for a very cold and lonely life."

"Funny." He smiled. "That's just how I've always imagined a career in politics."

"Belittle it all you like, but I daresay you could benefit from a lesson or two in diplomacy."

"Could be that's true." He leaned an elbow against the wall, interlocking his fingers, and smirked down at her. "You offerin' to teach me?"

Against her will, Inara's training whirred in the back of her mind. It notated and catalogued the boy's closeness, the way he'd turned his whole body toward her, and how hers had responded in kind.

She swallowed, half-turning away. "I doubt I have the skill, nor the patience, to be your tutor."

"Shame." Wesley lifted himself off the wall, with a shrug. "Not like I could afford it anyway, I'd imagine. Unless you'd accept payment in fresh manure."

Inara resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Well." He grabbed the handle of the cart. "If the lecture's over, Ambassador, I oughta get on with my work."

"Yes. I should also, um… get on." Inara turned to leave, then paused, to toss a glance at him, over her shoulder. "I suppose we may see each other again, Wesley. That is, if you can manage to keep your job."

He pushed the cart out of the stall, toward the sliding doors on the back wall. _"Duì shàng dì de xī wàng,_ Miss Serra." He tipped her a salute.

Only after she'd made it through the front entrance of the stables did Inara lose her composure, and collapse against the door. She tilted her head back, and shut her eyes. A long exhale shuddered out of her.

_What in the name of Buddha was_ that?

Inara lifted herself off the door, and took another breath. She picked up her feet over the grass, letting the air wick the heat from her skin, as she made her way toward the speeder that would carry her back to Madrassa.

Whatever reason she'd come to the stables, to extend a friendly hand, or _perhaps,_ some bet against herself, that no one could resist her charms once she decided to employ them, Inara left it all behind her. Along with Wesley's full-face grin.

She wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> _Shǎguā_ \- dummy, idiot (lit. foolish melon)  
>  _Duì shàng dì de xī wàng_ \- Hope to God ("I sincerely hope so")


	7. The Scent of Soil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warning:_ The loss of a parent in a violent death comes up in this chapter, including (brief) graphic description. Please do whatever you need to take care of yourself.
> 
> Soundtrack \- **Mal's Theme:** "The Derry Tune" by Bruno Coulais  & Kila, from _Song of the Sea: Original Soundtrack (2014)_

Mal had a gun in his hand.

That was always the first thing he noticed. The second was the mud, slick beneath his boots.

In a three-point crouch, the grass reached up to his neck, scratching at his chin. The rest of him was hidden by a thicket of ivy, crowding the base of the evergreen tree which stood sentinel on the front lawn of the ranch.

In a dappled green ocean, Mal had been submerged. He couldn't see his body when he looked down. But he could sense his size. He tensed the muscles in his arms and legs, and they held the power of an adult.

He looked at the folks around him. The light on that morning was hazy, filtered through dense cloud cover, but Mal knew the faces of those people in any kind of light.

Silas crouched beside him on one side, Maribel on the other, their eyes set dead ahead. A mule was parked close by. Percy and Anders hid behind it, rifles resting on their shoulders. The more Mal looked, the more people appeared, figures penciling in against the monotony of grass and endless grey sky. More than two dozen men and women, half of whom worked on his mother's ranch.

Mal always saw her last. The only one in the open, his mother stood alone on the gravel drive. She had settled into her unmovable stance. Feet wide apart, shoulders pulled back. One hand on her hip, the other on her holster, ready to draw.

He preferred to remember her like this. The broad planes of her face sharpened in profile, her thick dark hair roped up into a bun, a few loose strands whipping her cheeks in a sudden gust of wind. A Lady in her own right, yet prepared to get down in the dirt and fight, if she had to.

A beat behind, _always too late,_ Mal realized: the wind wasn't wind. It was the deceleration of a half dozen Alliance ships, descending on the ranch, slow yet certain, inexorable. They landed in formation, with the smallest at the head of the group. A sleek black and silver bullet. Its doors lifted, and five men crawled out. Like insects, their uniforms glinting in the diffused sunlight.

The Alliance detachment strode down the drive. All five held their hands clasped behind their backs, faces stony beneath the brim of their caps.

The man at the head of the group brought them to a halt. He didn't even remove his hat as he addressed Mal's mother.

"Nǐ hǎo, _Mrs. Faith Reynolds."_

 _"Gentlemen."_ She lifted her chin. _"This would be my land you've parked on. I'm within my rights to ask you to leave."_

_"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Reynolds. The eviction notice you received previously is hereby in effect. You are to vacate this property, or be removed by force."_

_"Eviction?"_ She shook her head. _"I don't think so. Let's call this what it is. Annexation of land by a governmental body using coercion or force. Which has been unconstitutional here for the past seventy years, by the ruling of the Primary Court of Shadow, L-Code A28-"_

The officer cut her off. _"Our authority supersedes that of the Court, and any other planetary governing bodies."_

_"We'll see about that. You go through with this, you can be assured I will appeal, and I'll bring a whole county of dispossessed folks along with me. You'll be sorry you ever stepped a toe over my property line."_

The Alliance men betrayed no reaction to this. They stood stiff and still, like dolls.

 _"We're here because you broke the law, Mrs. Reynolds,"_ the officer said patiently.

 _"So I heard. 'Tax evasion.'"_ She crossed her arms. _"But since_ my _government is now in the pocket of Blue Sun, I just didn't see the sense in funding their campaign to steal our land. Pushing farmers to buy their enhanced super-seeds, so they can squeeze 'em dry for 're-planting rights' every season. And if they can't pay, well, it's another pretty patch of soil for your collection."_

The officer was unmoved. _"If you don't vacate this property immediately, we are prepared to remove you." His words crept like cold fingers over the back of Mal's neck. "We have been granted the power to use lethal force."_

On cue, the doors of the other five, larger Alliance ships hissed open. Boots clattered down the walkways, and the silver and blue uniforms of the Peacekeeping squadron multiplied until there were forty men, sonic rifles slung across their backs. standing behind the group in front.

And opposite them, one woman. Her arms shifted to her sides, one hand on the butt of her revolver.

 _"Funny thing about power, gentlemen."_ Faith's voice cut through the thin air. _"Those who've got it tend not to expect it from anyone else."_

Silas and Maribel tensed. So did Mal. His legs coiled beneath him, ready to move. A thread of tension stretched taut through the air, as subtle as a collective intake of breath.

The officer spoke up. _"Let it be put on record that Faith Reynolds has been given ample warning. Yet she refuses to comply."_

 _"Damn right I do. But for the record, make that 'we.'"_ Mal's mother drew her pistol, and cocked it with one hand. _"You heard me, folks. Now!"_

The field erupted, the curtain of grass and ivy blown open by gunfire, a sudden thunderstorm that shattered the air. The women and men of the Birdseye militia kept close to their cover, taking a few quick shots before they ducked back again, making the most of the peacekeepers' surprise. More than a few of the blue-and-silver beetles were dead before they knew what was happening.

Shouts slung back and forth between the commanding officers and their underlings. The peacekeepers scattered to more defensible positions, along the sides of their ships. The sonic rifles had a short range, and the militia clung to this advantage as long as they could. But it couldn't last forever. They would have to give up their cover, or give up the fight.

Percy was the first to emerge, from behind the mule. He tossed his arm forwards, and barked, _"Move!"_

The militia obeyed. Mal moved with them.

But somewhere in the kaleidoscope of bullets and people and the shells of Alliance armor, he lost sight of his mother. Before he could fire a single shot, the gun vanished from his hands. Among the towering figures of the militia, he shrank. Smaller, weaker. He looked down at himself, and saw skinny arms and legs. His feet slid in secondhand boots.

He watched one of his mother's hands crumple to the ground not ten feet away from him. Percy, with gentle, drooping eyes; Percy, who had helped Mal get back up the first time he'd fallen off a horse. Mal wanted to run to him, but there was an Alliance peacekeeper coming close. Mal scrambled out of his path, away from the hot, electric stench of sonic energy.

Someone yanked on his collar. He choked, stumbling.

 _"The hell're you doin' here, boy?"_ It was Maribel. She tried to pull Mal into her arms, to drag him to safety. Mal didn't say a word, didn't even look at her. He slipped out of the woman's grip like light through a net.

He kept moving, tripping over bodies, Alliance and Birdseye folk alike. Some were contorted in pain, moaning. Others lay still and silent. Mal was small and quick enough to be ignored. He ducked laser fire and bullets, none intended for him. He tried to see through the chaos of movement around him, but his vision blurred, panic climbing up his throat.

 _"Mama!"_ The word took almost all his strength. He gasped. _"Mama!"_

As always, he saw a body. A woman. Before he could reach her, Silas stepped into his path. The man gripped him by the shoulders. His voice came from a long way's off.

_"You can't be here, son. You can't see this."_

Mal's fear made him strong. He ripped himself out of the man's hands, and dove past him. He didn't get far. He came up against a wall of frozen air, and collapsed to his knees.

Mal could not reconcile what he saw with the world he knew. He touched the ground, and the planet tilted off its axis beneath him.

 _"Mama,"_ he whispered.

She wasn't moving. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't moving. She lay still, lips parted, staring up at the sky. A dark stain, like a huge land mass, had eaten its way across her shirt, covering her stomach. The silver cross she wore around her neck, always, glinted from the hollow of her collarbone, untouched by blood.

Her hands lay empty, cold and pale. Mal held one in both of his, gripped so hard it hurt. He tugged at her.

 _"Mama."_ The word came apart in his mouth, splintered.

Someone grabbed Mal's shoulders, tried to pull him upright, pull him away. He resisted. Voices knocked against his ears, and bounced off. Nothing could penetrate the fog, dense and feverish, that had rolled over him.

The fog became material. A thick mist that sucked everything else away. Silas, and all the other militia folk, the Alliance ships, the evergreen tree and the front fence. Gone.

All Mal could see was his mother's body, splayed on the gravel drive. He looked up, and there was the head Alliance officer. Uniform pristine, unblemished by the corpses at his feet. Still wearing his cap. His laser pistol gleamed like a cruel smile, aimed for Mal's heart.

Mal let go of his mother's hand. A metallic weight settled into his palm, instead. The gun. He'd wished for it so hard, in that moment, he'd made it real.

He stood up, turning toward the officer. Mal didn't see the man's face. He saw a target.

He fired.

The release was immediate. It burst like a dam breaking in Mal's chest. It burned him from the inside out, consuming the oxygen in his lungs.

A dark hole bloomed between the officer's eyebrows. Mal watched as the man swayed, and fell.

Then, he looked down at himself. He saw the blood spreading across his own chest, a mirror image of his mother's. Too late, _always too late,_ he pressed a hand against the wound. The blood spilled over his fingers, its heat reached his throat.

Only when he could no longer hold onto it did Mal let go of the gun. Only when he lost his balance, as the ground disintegrated beneath him, and he fell into the black.

 

Mal bolted upright, gasping for breath, one hand still clutched tight to his chest. He panted, blinking, as he fumbled along the edge of his sleeping berth, and at last found the button to turn on the light.

His bunk room materialized around him, and he exhaled. _Sihnon._ The present moment came back in pieces. He held onto them with all his might. _Solomon Zhi's estate. In the stables._

Mal's breath caught. He crumpled in half, pulling his knees up to lay his arms across them. He rested his head against his forearms, and squeezed his eyes shut. Drops of heat escaped, to trace over his cheeks. He took a shuddering breath, and let it out slowly.

The trouble was he never knew he was dreaming. It didn't matter how many times he'd had this dream, _so many times,_ it didn't matter how much it warped and diverged from what had really happened. Mal lived that morning, every time he dreamed about it.

Every time, he became the fifteen-year-old kid he'd been then, calling for his mother, clutching her limp hand.

In reality, he hadn't been there to see the fight. Faith had left him under the close eye of a neighbor. She had forbid him to come anywhere near the ranch.

Of course, he hadn't obeyed. But by the time he managed to escape, and run home, he was too late. He'd shoved Silas out of his way to get to her. He'd found her lying on the drive, already gone. That piece of the nightmare was always real. He could never change it. No matter how his subconscious recreated the event, making him into a militia member, or even an Alliance peacekeeper, a few times.

Mal lifted his head, and touched the chain around his neck. He followed it with his fingers all the way down to the cross. It was warm, and slightly damp with sweat. Mal pulled his shirt off over his head. Using a dry patch of fabric, he wiped the emblem clean.

The days following his mother's death were blurred with grief. All Mal could remember was Silas. Steady and quiet, standing beside him. Silas was the one who made sure the necklace got to Mal, when his mother's body was being prepared for burial.

It was Silas, along with a handful of the other Birdseye militia members, who had told Mal how it was.

_"They weren't expectin' your Mama to throw legal code at 'em."_

Nods of reverence. _"Smart as a whip. That was Faith."_

Trading small smiles, as they unrolled the legend. _"She laid 'em out proper for the hurts they done us here. Takin' our livelihoods."_

For years after, they repeated the story, usually when gathered around the stove in Silas' kitchen, at the end of a night spent drinking and reminiscing. Mal heard it so many times, he felt like he had been there, to see his mother make her last stand against the government men.

Mal rubbed the cross, staring at nothing, his mouth drawn tight. His heartbeat had calmed, at last. But the pain in his chest refused to release its hold, like a burning ember shoved down his throat. Mal touched the place where he'd been shot, in his dream.

A strange impulse sent him to his feet. Shaking off sleep, Mal shuffled over to the desk on the far wall, and picked up the little clay pot. It had no label, but he remembered what Miss Serra had called it: 'healing probiotic ointment.' He lifted the lid, and took a cautious sniff.

He'd expected it to smell like jasmine or wildflowers or some other _niáng niáng qiāng_ nonsense. But the scent was more like soil, rich and earthy, reminding Mal of a forest floor. He breathed in deep, and exhaled through his mouth.

He shut his eyes. _Inara Serra._ Daughter of one of the most powerful men in the 'Verse. A man whom, incidentally, Mal had been assigned to spy on.

And he had pretty much ensured she would never want to speak to him again.

He couldn't think too clearly, it seemed, when she was right in front of him. Mal shook his head at himself. He wasn't about to lose sleep over the bruised feelings of some Coreworlder. But it had stung to see the hurt in her eyes, brief but genuine, at his accusation. His insinuation, really, that she hadn't come all the way down to the stables just to ask after his health.

A part- okay, _most_ of him had wanted to unsettle her. Wrinkle her silk-smooth manner a bit. The victory tasted ashen in his mouth.

_"I came down here because I thought you might like some company. I see now I was mistaken."_

Well, Mal could do without her sort of company. But he knew his superiors wouldn't like to hear that he'd scared off what was possibly the best source of intel they could've hoped for.

He tapped the service panel set into the wall by the door, squinting at the time. It was 3:07, three hours since he'd fallen asleep. Two left before he had to get up, and face the day of his first debriefing. He would use his free Monday afternoon to go into the capital city and meet with his contacts, for the first time since his mission had begun, giving them a full report of his past two weeks on Zhi's estate.

Sleep was unlikely, all things considered. But Mal turned off the screen anyway, and stumbled back to his sleeping berth. Without meaning to, he took the little clay pot of ointment with him.

Only because he was dead exhausted, only because he was alone, Mal forgot his pride and took two fingertips' worth of the balm, to rub into his chest. It cooled pleasantly on his skin. The smell of mist rising from soil calmed him, as he breathed in.

Mal set the pot on the shelf above his head, and collapsed onto the mattress. Somehow, against all odds, sleep crept back to him. And the Coreworlder's smile lit warm, fleeting dreams that he would forget upon waking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _Nǐ hǎo_ \- Hello (formal)  
>  _niáng niáng qiāng_ \- sissy, girly, feminine


End file.
